


Inside These Walls

by AntarcticBird



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntarcticBird/pseuds/AntarcticBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He notices the boy with the kind eyes on his very first day, dressed in slave robes the same way he is. A simple smile means a lot in a world as cold as theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Violence, grief, and emotional trauma.
> 
>  **A/N:** This is a story that deals with slavery and the kind of violence that goes along with it. Please take the warnings seriously. If you have any questions about the content of this story or anything else, please feel free to message me. Also, this fic is complete and I will post the parts as I edit them.
> 
> This would not exist without my wonderful betas, hand-holders and encouragers: [tchrgleek](http://tchrgleek.tumblr.com/), [completelyunabashed](http://completelyunabashed.tumblr.com/), [wheretheshadowslie](http://wheretheshadowslie.tumblr.com) and [mailroomorder](http://mailroomorder.tumblr.com). You guys are the best!

They come after dark, right as he's finally drifting off to sleep on his narrow little cot in the slave dormitories.

No one has told him about this, no one has warned him, but he knows what it means right away as they snatch his thin, scratchy blanket away from him, a tall and stocky guy grabbing his upper arm harshly to pull him to his feet.

For a moment he staggers, drowsy with exhaustion and half asleep and disoriented, but he does know what it means, closes his arms around the robes that are thrust against his chest.

They have come to take him away. It happens. It has happened before, just not to him. But of course he had noticed. All of them have. It's impossible to sleep through the commotion of men in heavy boots invading your sleeping space to pull one of your roommates from his bed and drag him away, never to be seen again.

It is something they don't talk of, not ever. It is just a fact of life. It can happen to anyone, anytime, there is never any warning. It's not like they have a right to know when it happens to them. When they're sold to someone else. They're property, after all. _Things_. This is just something that happens to things.

His heart beats in his throat as he struggles into the unfamiliar robes; they're cheap and rough and thin and not enough to protect against the cold night air, but he knows better than to say any of that. He's seen someone talk back at them before, seen them beat him until he couldn't stand anymore and then take him away all the same. Without any robes on. He knows better than to talk back.

This is nothing unusual and he's always expected them to come for him eventually; he's been here at the mansion for a long time, longer than most of the other slaves that serve here.

He wonders what they paid for him.

He isn't surprised, but he can't help feeling scared, shocked, cold all over. He's never seen what happens to the people who are taken in the middle of the night.

A new owner, he suspects. A new place, new duties. Whatever they may be.

He shivers as they drag him away, each of them closing their hands around his upper arms in an iron grip that hurts him and isn't necessary. He'd follow them anyway, too afraid not to. They don't care about that. They don't talk to him. They just take him, and all he can do is breathe in, breathe out, try to calm the insane pounding of his heart inside his chest.

Fear won't help him. It won't save him. All he can do is keep his mouth shut and let them do to him whatever they please and not do anything to make it worse.

The way through the mansion is long since the dormitories are all the way at the back and they're exiting by the front doors, and there's a carriage in the driveway with a cage attached to the back. There are already two other figures huddled down against the cold in there, and Blaine is vaguely aware of the Master standing by the mansion's giant front door and shaking hands with someone.

And then he's being pushed and shoved across the driveway, the rough gravel stinging his bare feet. One of the men flings open the door of the cage and then he's being tossed inside unceremoniously, landing painfully on his hip. He clenches his teeth and doesn't make a sound.

It takes mere minutes before the carriage is rumbling away and in the dark Blaine can't even make out the faces of his two companions – not that it matters. There is not much companionship to be had in the biting cold of the pitch-black night as they start their journey into the unknown.

They stop outside an inn in the village about half an hour later. The men who took him climb down from their seat in front side by side, disappear behind the doors; warm, inviting light, laughing voices spilling out onto the street for the briefest of moments. They don't come back all night. Probably took a room, had a nice meal, went to sleep warm and comfortable under clean sheets.

Blaine wraps his arms around himself and can't even close his eyes; it's too cold, and he still doesn't know what any of this means. 

He waits.

In the morning the men are back, looking rested and cheerful and not sparing a single glance for their passengers (prisoners?) as they climb back onto the box, resume their journey. They don't bring any food for their living cargo.

Blaine's companions don't ask for anything, and neither does Blaine.

One more stop along the way, later that morning. It's outside another mansion somewhat smaller than the one where Blaine had spent the last few years, and after about half an hour a woman is thrown into the cage alongside them.

And then they continue.

**

It's a day later and after another night out in the cold, this time with two thin blankets for them to share, when they arrive outside a castle, are pulled roughly from the cage before they have a chance of climbing out by themselves. And then there are more men, escorting Blaine and his three silent companions between them up to a pair of giant, heavy oak doors.

As soon as they are through the doors and entering a vast hall interspersed with rough stone pillars, the other three are ushered off in a different direction and Blaine doesn't know what it means to be escorted, or rather dragged and kicked, down all these corridors by himself – but whatever it means, he can't really imagine it to be a good sign.

The guy shoving and pulling him along explains to him in a clipped voice that he's the overseer and the one Blaine will have to answer to should he decide his duties are not all that important. Blaine keeps his head down and answers with no more than a “yes, sir” when directly addressed.

The overseer is dragging him along the corridors, his giant fingers bruising Blaine's arm, and he stumbles beside him without knowing where he's being taken.

He's going to be told why he's here soon enough, he supposes. There's no point in driving his tired mind even more insane with worry over things he has no influence over anyway.

And still he feels like crying – he's scared and alone and hungry and lost, and while his former Master hadn't been the kindest man, he has no idea if this one might not be even more needlessly cruel.

They turn a corner and the overseer stops for a minute, seeing someone he knows, and starts talking to him. Blaine stands very still and very small, almost unable to move at all with his arm still caught in the vice of the man's grip.

Still, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, turns his face just enough to see.

And there's a boy kneeling on the stone floor, scrubbing the glass of a floor-length window; a boy around his own age in shapeless, gray servant's robes. He's too thin and there's a streak of dirt on his cheek and his hair is cut unevenly and sticking up at odd angles, but his eyes – his eyes are so very, very blue and so very, very kind.

Blaine swallows, and even though he knows it is horribly unwise, he can't look away.

Two days in a cage with three other slaves and all of them too scared to comfort each other – he feels worn out, weak, dizzy with sleep deprivation and hunger.

The boy looks back at him, and there it is: a smile. It's short and gone again in a moment, but it's the first act of kindness Blaine has been shown in a very long time; it makes him want to cry even more.

He wants to smile back, as a thank you to the boy for making him feel a little better, but … he just can't find it in himself. So he simply stares, holding his gaze until there's a rough tug at his arm and he's being dragged away again, pushed and pulled down the corridor to an unknown destination.

The castle is big, a lot bigger than the mansion he'd served at before. Worry gnaws at his insides – in a place this big, it's so easy to get lost, to get turned around. So much room for mistakes. He's never served at a place this big and it's making him nervous just being here. He feels small, so small.

The overseer drags him up another flight of stairs and then down a narrow corridor that has only a few rough wooden doors. He opens the third on the right, pushes Blaine through it with so much force that he stumbles, crashing to his knees so hard it makes tears shoot to his eyes, hands slamming against the frame of the wooden cot that's the only piece of furniture in the room apart from a footstool with what looks like a folded up gray slave robe on top of it.

“This is where you sleep,” the man says coldly. “Get changed and wait here, you'll be sent for soon enough. Make sure you're ready.”

He turns to go, and Blaine quickly scrambles around to face the door, still on his scraped knees, heart beating so fast he feels like he needs to throw up, but he has to ask. “Please, sir -”

“What now?” the overseer barks at him.

Blaine swallows hard. “I just – ready for what? I mean … what are my duties? I don't -”

“You'll be serving the Count personally,” the man informs him without any emotion in his voice. “It's the only reason you're getting the _good_ room.” He laughs at his own joke, a cold, merciless laugh. “He'll need you rested and close at hand at all times.”

Blaine nods, dread welling up deep inside. He's to be a personal servant. He's never been a personal servant. He doesn't know the first thing about it, he's always had others to rely on when he didn't know … This is going to be difficult. He's never been so entirely on his own before – he's always shared a room with at least three other slaves, and the kitchens where he'd worked before had always been filled with people, people like him, people who understood, people to offer companionship to ease the burden of their eternal slavery .

“I understand,” he manages, fists clenched tightly in his lap.

The overseer snorts, and slams the door behind himself.

Blaine closes his eyes for a minute, shaking all over. This has not started well.

All he wants to do is let himself sink down to that quiet place of darkness for a little while, count his bruises, mourn the friendships he's had to leave behind. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye to any of them. Will they wonder what's become of him? Or will they just move on with their lives as if he'd never even been there? It is, after all, not uncommon for slaves to disappear in the middle of the night, sold for a profit or lost at a card game, no one cares what becomes of them, it's not like they're considered _people_...

But he knows that someone might be coming for him any minute and he needs to be ready lest he wants to be beaten for tardiness on his very first day. So he quickly struggles to his feet, ignoring the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and the slight dizziness left behind by hunger. He hasn't eaten in two days. No one's remembered to give him anything. He just hopes there's an evening meal for slaves at this place, and that someone will eventually remember to include him in it.

He pulls the old robe over his head as quickly as he can, folds it up neatly despite its dirty state, and slips into the new one that's been given to him. The fabric is rough against his skin and it smells of mothballs and it's several sizes too big.

He'll get used to it.

Once he's done, he sits down at the edge of the cot carefully, folding his shaking hands in his lap. He's cold. He's hungry. He's terrified.

He waits.

**

His first meeting with the Lord Schuester, the Count and owner of this castle, takes place that very same day after Blaine has been left to wait in his cell for the better part of an hour. The overseer, the same man who's kicked him into the room, now drags him out of it again, pushing him down the rest of the corridor towards the large double doors at the end of it.

Blaine keeps his head lowered, lets himself be dragged around, there is no escaping the brutality of men like the overseer. That's one lesson Blaine has learned in his years as a slave: all you can ever do is your best to seem subservient, and even that will not always protect you. He has some scars to prove it.

Standing outside the double doors is the first time since his arrival that Blaine ever sees something like submissiveness in the overseer's posture as he raises a fist to knock firmly on the carved wood of the door. As brutal and despotic as this man might be behaving toward Blaine and his kind, he still isn't the master of this place, Blaine reminds himself – he's a servant also, even if he's a free man and not the Count's property the way that Blaine is. He still answers to his master, though. He still depends on him.

“Enter,” a bored voice sounds from inside, and the overseer pushes open the doors, closes his iron grip around Blaine's upper arm and gods, his hand is big enough to circle Blaine's bicep completely. He yanks him forward so hard that Blaine stumbles, drags him into the room beside him.

It's a suite behind those doors, decorated in rich golds and blues, lavishly furnished and spacious. It's his new owner's quarters.

His new owner himself is lounging on a soft-looking divan, a cup with something steaming clutched to his chest, soft music filling the room from the clavichord in the corner where a man in the traditional black robe of a paid servant is playing a beautiful, unfamiliar melody. Lord Schuester holds up a hand at them, eyes unfocused as his other hand waves through the air to the rhythm of the song, and his eyes drift closed with an almost drunk smile on his face until the last note fades away.

Blaine hangs off the overseer's hand with his arm starting to hurt and his fingers going numb, but there's nothing to be done about it. The overseer himself stands stock-still, the slight trembling of his grip the only indication that he's alive at all – Blaine risks flickering his eyes upward to his face to see his clenched jaw, the fire in his eyes as he looks at the man who's both their master.

And he realizes, with sudden clarity, what will make this man the most dangerous to him: the overseer hates Lord Schuester. Which means he won't be careful with his Count's possessions. And Blaine is such a possession now.

It might give this man pleasure to hurt him, if he's ever given the chance. He needs to be careful. Very, very careful.

“Thank you, Brad, that will be all,” Schuester speaks up, dismissing the man at the clavichord with a wave of his hand.

Brad, the musician, stands up from his stool, bows, then hurries past them and out of the room. His face seems expressionless.

“So, Cooter,” the Count says, turning toward the overseer, looking Blaine up and down with a smile on his face that Blaine assumes is meant to be welcoming. It mostly looks bored. “What have you brought me here?”

“Your new manservant, sire,” the overseer answers, giving Blaine a shove hard enough to make him stumble forward so he lands on his already sore knees on the floor a few feet before the Count, sliding the last few inches toward him.

Schuester puts his cup down on a small table at the head of his divan, twists around to look at him fully without having to get up. “Careful, Cooter,” he reprimands. “There is no need for this.”

“My apologies, Master,” the overseer drawls, sounding like he's mocking him.

The Count doesn't seem to notice, looks down at Blaine instead. “What's your name, boy?”

Blaine sucks in a nervous breath, keeping his head respectfully lowered the way he's been taught, only daring to look up through his lashes. “Blaine, sire.”

Schuester nods, suddenly pushing himself up from the divan to stretch his arms over his head, shaking out his shoulders. “I shall be going to visit the Lady Pillsbury this evening,” he says, to no one in particular. “Cooter, see to it that the servants don't burn the place down in my absence. And you, boy – _Blaine_ , was it? - go and fetch me my lunch. I'm rather hungry.”

**

It takes him a few days to get settled into his new life here – he's busier than he's ever been before and the castle is confusing at first. He does get lost a number of times, just as he expected.

Lord Schuester himself is not an impatient man, and he's not unkind, but his indifference toward the servants gives the overseer almost absolute control. And Blaine finds that his first impression of him has been more than correct: he is a cruel man if Blaine has ever met one.

Blaine's duties are numerous – he keeps the Count's quarters clean and tidy, takes care of the washing and bringing him his meals and fetching bathwater and running errands for him all day long. He's used to hard labor, but it only takes a day before his back and feet ache terribly, and above it all he still just feels very, very scared, which makes him jumpy and nervous and leads to accidents and mistakes.

On his third day, tired and exhausted as he already is, he gets turned around on his way to the kitchens where he was supposed to get his Master's tea. By the time he finds his way back to the quarters he's out of breath and shaking from the silent panic of knowing he hadn't done well, but Lord Schuester, bent over his desk where he's writing a letter, barely acknowledges his arrival at all, just waves at him to put the tray on a side table and leave him.

He's supposed to run to the stables and see to it that the carriage is ready that night after dinner to take Lord Schuester to one of his numerous social appointments, but the overseer catches him outside the room before Blaine has even fully turned around from closing the door behind himself.

“And what do you think you were you doing?” the man spits at him. “Think you can just laze around while the rest of us are working hard, are you?”

Blaine shakes his head emphatically. “No, I -”

“Oh, and you won't even admit to it either, will you? I know the likes of you.” He shakes his arm hard. “Pretty young things who think they can get away with anything. But not on my watch, pretty boy, you'll come to learn that soon enough.”

Fear makes cold sweat break out on his forehead and he swallows several times to unblock his throat, make his voice work despite the rising panic. “Please, I was just – I got lost, I -” Blaine tries, but it's no use.

“Don't you dare talk back to me,” the overseer hisses. “You need to learn your place, _slave_.”

“I'm sorry,” Blaine whispers, but he's already being yanked down the hall, the overseer kicking open the door to Blaine's quarters to push him inside. He follows after him, closing the door behind them before giving Blaine another brutal shove between the shoulder blades.

“On your knees,” he says coldly, detaching the short whip he always carries from his belt. “And off with your robe.”

Blaine bites his lip hard but obeys, he knows from experience that arguing and fighting will only make it hurt more.

“This was your first transgression,” the overseer informs him, “And you're not finished with your duties for the day. So we'll keep this light. Want you to still be able to move, after all, or you really will be good for nothing anymore. Not that you've been actually good for anything so far. But maybe this'll help you learn to be on time from now on.”

Blaine doesn't answer, just grips the edge of his cot with both hands until his knuckles turn white and squeezes his eyes shut. There's a hiss and then a sharp explosion of white-hot pain across his back, and he has to bite back the cry rising up in his throat. If this is light punishment, then he never wants to experience a real punishment from this man's hands.

It throbs and burns as strike after strike falls down on him, each hit making the pain flare up brighter until his body spasms under each cut of the whip across his tender skin, and he can hardly breathe by the time the crack of the last hit sounds in the room.

The overseer steps back, his boots heavy on the stone floor.

“Get dressed and go back to work,” he tells him, panting lightly, sounding coldly pleased with his handiwork. “Or we'll be doing this again in no time.”

Blaine can't reply, can't even move until he hears the door slam shut behind the man's retreating footsteps.

He's left lying on the floor with bleeding cuts beaten into his skin, shaking, hurting, shocked into a cold state of dizziness, but he also knows it'll get so much worse if he doesn't pull himself together quickly.

Trying to move his arms, he whimpers out loud as the movement stretches the skin across his back and sends a fresh wave of pain all over his body. And yet he has no choice, he never has a choice. So he climbs to his feet, slowly, fights down the rising nausea, the bile rising in his throat – for a moment he thinks he'll throw up. Awkwardly, he grabs his robe off the cold floor, breathing heavily through the agony as he struggles his way into it. He doesn't even cry. He's too shocked to cry.

Limping, he makes his way to the stables, beaten down to a place where he sees everything as through a thick fog. So far, this place has been even worse than he'd anticipated.

The rest of the day drags by as Blaine moves his hurt body around, running errands and trying not to show just how much pain he's suffering with every step. He doesn't feel like giving the overseer that kind of satisfaction.

He's walking back from the library to deliver a book to his Master when he sees the boy with the blue eyes again, the one who had smiled at him a mere three days ago. It seems like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The boy is brushing the floor with a rough broom, and he looks up as Blaine walks by. And there's just the beginning of a smile again on his face and Blaine wants to smile back so badly, but then he moves his back in a wrong way and flinches instead, stumbling a bit before hurriedly limping onwards, his skin burning where the whip left its marks.

The boy's face turns dark and worried and his look of concern makes Blaine want to whimper out loud. Instead, he walks on, disappearing around the bend in the corridor and out of sight of those blue eyes that keep following him all the way.

It's early evening when he finally gets some time to rest – his Master is entertaining a guest and Blaine has delivered their wishes for the evening meal to the kitchens and is now free to wait until the food is done so that he can take it up to them. The cook informs him it's going to be at least an hour, and given nothing else to do and not wanting to go back to his room because it's close to his Master's and he doesn't want to be in close proximity to him if he can help it, Blaine lingers outside the kitchen.

There's a wooden bench shoved against the wall and he thinks of sitting down for a few minutes, just to give his feet a little rest. Before he can make up his mind either way, the boy with the blue eyes turns the corner, walks toward him with determination.

Blaine freezes. He's not sure what to do – was the boy sent for him to give him yet another task? His heart sinks, but before worry can creep in, the boy is standing in front of him, and his face is gentle, kind, just the slightest bit nervous.

“Come with me,” he says, voice low but sweet and melodious as he motions down the corridor in the direction he came from.

“I -” Blaine swallows. “I'm supposed to wait for the Master's meal, I -”

The boy shakes his head. “The cook says you have about an hour before that's done. Please. Come with me. Before anyone sees.”

Blaine's heart beats faster in his chest and he doesn't know what to say. But the boy just takes his arm, a gentle, almost comforting touch, not bruising like the overseer's grip. “It's quite safe, I promise.”

And Blaine doesn't have the energy to fight it as he's being led down the corridor, around one corner and then another one, until the boy stops in front of a rough wooden door, eyes quickly darting up and down the hallway to make sure no one followed them. He opens the door and they slip through, and Blaine hears the faint click of it closing behind them as he takes in the room before him.

It is obviously a slave dormitory, a dozen or so rough wooden cots much like his own standing in neat rows side by side. He has no idea what's going on anymore.

“Don't be afraid,” he hears, and turns around to meet those beautiful eyes.

“I -”

“I'm Kurt,” the boy tells him, smiling that warm smile again.

“Oh, uh.” Blaine swallows heavily, trying to make sense of this. “Blaine. I'm – I'm Blaine.”

“You're hurt,” Kurt says without preamble, and his gaze turns worried again.

“I'm fine, it's just -” Blaine isn't sure how much he should reveal to Kurt, he's not sure of anything right now.

“No, you're not.” Kurt shakes his head, takes a careful step closer. “I've been beaten before. I've seen others limping the way you are.” He looks angry. “It was the overseer?”

Blaine nods shakily. “I was late. I got lost. I -”

“It's all right, Blaine,” Kurt assures him, gently reaching out to touch his shoulder, guiding him across the room and pushing him down to sit on one of the cots. “It's all right. Take off your robe?”

“I'm not sure I – What are you -”

“Let me help you,” Kurt says softly. “Please. We don't have a lot of time before anyone comes looking for me.” He bends down, fumbling around under the cot to come back up with a small earthen pot. He takes the lid off, motioning to Blaine's robes again. “Please?”

Blaine sighs, blushing a little.”I can't really – it … hurts. To, um. Move my arms too much.”

Kurt nods slowly, walking around Blaine to tug the fabric off his back. Blaine hisses at the pain.

“I'm sorry,” Kurt apologizes. “Just – lift up a little?”

Blaine struggles to get the robes out from under himself, then lets Kurt guide his arms gently free of them. It's strange and he still doesn't know what's happening to him, but he's too weak to fight any of it and Kurt seems … oddly trustworthy. He doubts he'll hurt him even more. And even if he wanted to, Blaine isn't in any state to fight him off; he's completely at his mercy. Trusting him seems the only option if he doesn't want to resort to blinding fear. And he's had quite enough of that for the day, if not for a lifetime.

Kurt tugs the piece of clothing up over Blaine's head, places it gently on the cot next to him. There are small stains of dried blood on the back of it. “You might want to wash this out,” Kurt suggests, and Blaine just nods.

He waits for a long moment as Kurt assesses his back quietly, almost startles at hearing his voice again.

“I'll need to clean the cuts, is that all right?” Kurt asks carefully. “It might hurt, but you don't want this to become infected.”

“You don't have to do that for me,” Blaine protests.

“You can't reach your back,” Kurt explains, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

“I -” Blaine exhales shakily. “All right. Thank you.”

Kurt hums an affirmation, then crosses the room to the wash basin, picking up a rag and soaking it. “The water is clean,” he promises, before making his way back over. “I changed it myself not an hour ago.”

Blaine closes his eyes as Kurt begins, softly and carefully, cleaning his back. It stings but it's also soothing in a way he didn't expect, and a rush of gratefulness shivers through him so unexpectedly he doesn't know what to do.

“He broke the skin in quite a few places,” Kurt says quietly, voice barely controlled with anger.

“It felt like he did,” Blaine admits.

“He's a monster,” Kurt says. “But Schuester lets him do whatever he wants. Don't get on his bad side.”

“I didn't mean to -” Blaine starts defending himself, but Kurt puts a warm hand on his naked shoulder.

“Shh, no,” he cuts him off. “I wasn't implying anything. I'm just -” He breaks off, keeps carefully cleaning out the cuts. “I'm so sorry that he did this to you.”

“It's hardly your fault,” Blaine tells him, and Kurt touches his shoulder again.

Once he's done with the wet rag, Kurt picks up Blaine's robes, carefully dries him off with a clean edge of them.

“I'm going to put something on your back to help with the pain,” he explains, as he lifts up the pot, showing the contents to Blaine. It's a green, sharp-smelling sort of salve. “It won't heal the broken skin, but it will make it numb and cool it a little so that the pain isn't quite so bad.”

Blaine blinks, staring ahead, fingers gripping the edge of the cot. He doesn't understand why Kurt is doing this. “You don't have to waste it on me, I'm sure it's hard to come by -”

“Blaine,” Kurt tells him, voice firm. “This is not up for debate.”

“All right,” Blaine agrees, then sucks in a sharp breath at the first touch of Kurt's cold, slick fingers against his hot skin.

They don't speak as Kurt rubs in the salve, his hands soft and so, so gentle. It only takes moments before the pain begins to dull as his skin numbs, but he can still feel Kurt's hands, a gentle caress on his abused skin.

And for the first time since he'd set foot in this place, he feels real tears well up in his eyes and his heart aches in his chest with a tugging sensation he doesn't understand.

No one has ever done anything like this for him before and he can't stop being scared but at the same time, he feels overwhelmed in a way that is not unpleasant, not at all. It's … too much, almost more than he can take.

He cries softly as Kurt keeps touching him. He's embarrassed, but he can't stop, the pain ebbing and receding until he can breathe again, it feels too good, and after the last few days he feels so shaken up he just can't keep his emotions in check no matter how hard he tries. He has a feeling that Kurt won't judge him for it.

When Kurt finally stops, withdrawing his hands and wiping them on the wet rag, Blaine sucks in a sharp breath, the loss of that calming touch letting sadness and despair sink back into his bones.

“All done,” Kurt says, shoving the rags and the closed pot back under his cot. “If the pain comes back tomorrow, come find me when you have a minute.”

“I couldn't -” Blaine draws in a shuddering breath, voice thick with tears. “You've been so kind to me already -”

“No, hey, hey.” Kurt quickly walks around him, kneeling down on the floor in front of him to meet his eyes. “Promise me. If it's bad again tomorrow, you'll find a way to let me know.”

“Why are you doing this?” Blaine chokes around a too heavy breath, not knowing whether he feels more wary or more surprised, and Kurt smiles at him.

“You were hurting. I could help. Isn't that reason enough?”

Blaine blinks at him through wet lashes and attempts a smile back. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I mean it. Thank you so much, Kurt, you have no idea -”

Their eyes meet and for moment, Blaine actually believes that there might still be some goodness in this world. Kurt looks back at him with actual warmth in his eyes, as if he actually cares, and no one has done that since, since...

But then Kurt pushes himself off the floor, brushing off his knees. “Let's get you back into your clothes,” he says. “I suppose we should both get back to our duties before anyone misses us.”

“Yes,” Blaine agrees, heart sinking.

Kurt helps him get dressed again, then cracks the door open the slightest bit, checking that the corridor is still empty. “No one comes here during the day, usually,” he explains. “These are all dormitories and everyone's busy for at least another three hours or so.”

“So we can slip out unseen,” Blaine comments.

Kurt turns back to Blaine, reaching out to take his hands in both of his – another friendly, utterly unfamiliar touch. “I know this place is horrible and I don't envy you your position,” Kurt says. “But Blaine, you should know that – you're not alone here, all right? You don't have to be. Not anymore.”

Blaine can only nod, overwhelmed. It's been maybe fifteen minutes since Kurt found him outside the kitchen, but he's had more kindness directed at him in those fifteen minutes than in several years before that combined.

Kurt lets go of his hands as they quickly leave the room, hurrying down the corridor and back into the main part of the castle. Blaine is definitely walking easier with the sharp edge taken off the pain.

He wants to thank Kurt again, but he knows now is not the time, it's not safe out here, it's not safe anywhere. No one can know Kurt helped him, and seeing them come out of an empty room together could have people accusing them of even worse things – things that are still punishable by death in the kingdom.

Still, before they part at the corner to the kitchen, Kurt twitches a smile at him, one hand reaching out lightning-fast to brush over Blaine's forearm. And then he's walking away and Blaine looks after him as long as he dares before finally taking his seat on that wooden bench he saw earlier.

He's still tired, still confused, and there's still a dull pain throbbing all over his back. But there's also – a sudden lightness, hidden away in the most private corner of his heart. He can still feel the gentleness of Kurt's touch. Even the memory of it is enough to make his soul feel like a burden has been lifted off of it. He hasn't had a reason to feel grateful for anything in a very long time. Maybe that's why he feels it so strongly now.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing much changes about his life in the following days, except that now, when he passes Kurt in the hallways and they smile at each other, Blaine feels like there's a hidden meaning behind those glances. A secret that only the two of them share. Blaine has never had anyone to share secrets with, despite the tentative friendships he'd formed at his former place. It's a nice feeling that gets him through many very rough days. And there are a lot of those at the castle.

More than anything he wishes that he could be alone with Kurt again even just for a minute, that he had the time and the privacy to talk with him, to listen to his lovely voice and maybe take his hand again. At night, he lies awake thinking of him, and it's good to have this, to have something private and just for himself that even the overseer's sneers and shoves and hits cannot take away from him.

Even if it's just a fabrication, just something in his own head, Kurt becomes his safe place. Thinking of him becomes his retreat.

It's almost another two weeks before they get more time than just a look in passing again – Blaine is once again sitting on the bench outside the kitchen, waiting for his Master's meal, when Kurt comes walking down the hallway, a bucket and a rag in his hands.

Blaine looks up as he hears his footsteps and their eyes meet, Kurt already smiling that soft, secretive smile that Blaine has already gotten so used to. He fully expects him to walk by, but instead, Kurt sets his bucket down next to the bench, kneels beside it, and starts scrubbing the stone floor at Blaine's feet.

“How have you been?” he asks quietly.

“Kurt,” Blaine replies, and he can't keep the happiness out of his voice. “I'm – fine. Better. Thanks to you.”

“I'm glad,” Kurt says, quickly looking up at him. “I've been worried about you.”

“You've seen me around,” Blaine reminds him. “You would have noticed if there had been another – incident.”

Kurt shakes his head sadly. “Physical abuse is not the only damage they can do to you here, Blaine,” he reminds him. “And you don't even have the company of equals, you're all alone up there with – them. With _him_.” The contempt for the people they serve, especially Cooter, the overseer, is obvious in his voice.

Blaine bites his lip, nodding slowly. “It's – difficult, sometimes. But -” he blushes, stares at his hands. “The kindness you've shown me has gone a long way toward making my days more bearable. I think of it often.”

“Oh.” Kurt sounds pleased. “I'm happy I could help.”

“Aren't you going to get in trouble for talking to me?” Blaine worries. “Is this allowed?”

Kurt shrugs. “I actually don't know. That's why I brought the bucket. Not my fault that you sit where I'm cleaning.”

“That's quite cunning of you,” Blaine tells him with a grin. “I'm impressed.”

Kurt laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound Blaine has ever heard in his life. “I just really wanted to talk with you,” Kurt admits, then hesitates. “Is that – all right? I mean -”

“That's very all right,” Blaine hastens to assure him, heart beating faster. “I am grateful for the company. And also I've – wanted to talk with you too. You're the only friend I've made here.” He bites his lip quickly, looking down. Are they friends? The words have just slipped out -

“Hey.” Suddenly, there's a gentle hand on his knee, and he blinks through his lashes to see Kurt leaning forward, staring up at him intently. “I'm very happy that we're friends. I _want_ to be your friend.”

Blaine smiles as his heart lifts, and for moment, they gaze into each other's eyes and Blaine feels – something he'd never felt before, something new and nameless and wonderful. He'd move the earth for a single smile like this, he thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Kurt's thumb rubs gently over the bend of his knee before he jerks his hand back as he realizes what he's doing, a deep blush rising on his face. “Everyone needs friends,” he says. “Especially in a place like this.”

For the remaining minutes Blaine has to wait for their Master's dinner, Kurt keeps cleaning while Blaine watches him and they exchange idle words, nothing of any consequence for fear of being overheard.

But that night when the overseer slaps him across the face for spilling a droplet of wine onto the tablecloth, Blaine breathes through the sting and conjures up the image of Kurt, the sound of his voice, holds onto the knowledge that this moment will end and he'll have another one like this evening outside the kitchens again.

It doesn't ease the pain in his cheek, but it does make him feel better all the same.

**

It's interesting, Kurt thinks, how your body learns to catalog and file away different kinds of pain.

There's the constant ache in his back that he's not even aware of anymore, it's just something that exists constantly as a part of him, it's just what his back feels like. It's the pain from always kneeling on hard stone floors, bent over, scrubbing invisible stains from surfaces that, five minutes later, someone will walk across with muddy boots, forcing him to start all over again. It's the pain from sleeping on a lumpy, thin straw mattress on a wooden cot, the pain from carrying heavy things all day long. It never goes away. He lives with it. And unless it flares up suddenly like it does sometimes, it doesn't even register with him anymore.

There's the way his knees always hurt from scraping against the rough floors of the castle, the way his hands hurt when the skin gets so dry it starts to crack and bleed from being dipped in a cleaning bucket all day long.

There's the constant ache in his heart from knowing there's no way out of this, from knowing that this is his life and it's always going to be that way and there's nothing he can do about it. Six years of this and he hasn't been able to accept that this is his fate. It still just feels … horrible, and unfair, and _wrong_.

And then sometimes a new kind of pain shows up that his body isn't used to, a kind of pain that distracts him and makes tears sting in his eyes and makes him suddenly, unwillingly, very very aware of certain parts of his body. Like his face right now, and more specifically the cut on his lip and the throbbing around his eye that's already swelling shut. It _hurts_.

It's been hurting since last night when he'd been shoved down the end of an empty corridor, hateful words and sneers spit at his face, and then fists, just a few well-aimed punches; they're always careful not to take him out completely. That, they'd get in trouble for. Messing him up a bit is simply considered entertainment.

He doesn't even know what he did to them this time. He never consciously gives them any reason to do this to him, and he's been so good, so careful – but they've still seen him talking to Blaine, seen him _smile_ , and seriously, it had just been a smile, what's wrong with a _smile_? But for them, it's enough, enough to make fun of him, hate him, accuse him of – of what, exactly?

He knows it's illegal. If he and Blaine actually were – _that_ … 

No. Because. Even _if_ they actually were, it still wouldn't be any of their business. They're slaves like him. They're not the law. It's a punishable offense, but it's hardly their place to punish him. And yet they did, they _do_ , they keep on making it their business and they can't even know for sure, how do they even _know_? He just doesn't get it. He doesn't get how they can turn on one of their own like that, because isn't that what he's supposed to be to them? One of their own? If even the slaves at this place can't stick together then what's to become of them all?

It's hard to blame them when he understands where it's coming from though, when he has felt the same anger, the same wish to lash out, even if he's never acted on it. They're hated, they get beaten and kicked like dogs, they get yelled at, they never have enough to eat and they're always tired. They get abused by the people stronger than them, so when they see someone weaker, they pass on what's been done to them – it's an endless cycle of hate and cruelty and even if he does understand it intellectually, it's still impossible to not despise them when they kick the crap out of him.

His face feels sore and his body feels weak and all he wants is to curl up in a corner and cry and sleep the day away, but that will earn him a _real_ punishment involving a _real_ beating on top of everything else his body has already been through. So instead, he picks up his bucket, makes his feet move, one in front of the other, down the corridor and towards the library where he's supposed to be cleaning the windows. The library has a lot of windows. It's going to be a long, long, painful, _exhausting_ day. It's going to be a day like most others in his life at this place.

He doesn't know how long he's been cleaning, his hands have gone numb and his face throbs every time he leans down to soak his rag in the bucket of water, and it becomes mechanical, his mind slipping away from him until he just functions, doesn't have to think about the mindlessness of his task or the reason he's stuck with it in the first place. Six years. He knows. It's easier this way.

“Kurt?”

He looks up at the familiar voice, fog clearing from his head, and he'd smile if it didn't hurt so much. “Blaine!”

Blaine's face is dark, worried, and Kurt wants to reach out, smooth away the crease between his eyebrows with the tips of his fingers. He wants Blaine to smile. He has such a pretty smile.

“What happened to you?” Blaine asks, taking a step closer.

Kurt just shrugs, tongue flicking out to tentatively touch the coppery-tasting cut on his lip. “Just some guys.”

“Are you all right?”

He should say yes. He can't upset Blaine. This is something that happens all the time. It's no big deal, he should, he should …

The worry on Blaine's face is so real. So present. So _wonderful_ as it shivers through his tired, aching body – Blaine _cares_. And it's been far too long since anyone has, anyone except for his stepbrother who works at the stables and whom Kurt rarely ever even sees anymore.

“It hurts,” he admits, voice low, quiet. Ashamed for his pain and failure to conceal it. Pain is weakness.

Blaine nods, taking a step closer, hands opening and closing at his sides as if he's thinking.

Kurt feels his shoulders slump, and he has no idea what it is about Blaine's presence, but it feels – safe, to let go around him.

With a few steps, Blaine is by his side, gently taking his arm and leading him away through stacks of books toward a small, hidden alcove. Before Kurt can ask, Blaine has pulled him inside and out of sight, and then Kurt is being hugged, strong warm arms around his waist, a solid, breathing body pressing against his.

Bringing his own arms up to wrap around Blaine's shoulders seems like instinct, and then he just sinks against him, unable to hold himself up any longer. He knows he'll be embarrassed about this later, but Blaine is offering comfort, and Kurt needs it like he's never needed anything in his life.

“I've got you,” Blaine whispers, pulling him closer, one hand rubbing up and down Kurt's back, and Kurt clings to him with every bit of strength he has left, turning his head to rest the unhurt side of his face against Blaine's welcoming shoulder.

“Blaine,” he says weakly, pressing closer, soaking up the feeling of comfort as eagerly as he can.

“I'm here,” Blaine tells him quietly, and Kurt closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of his skin, and feels almost safe for the first time in years.

“How did you know this alcove was here?” he asks.

Blaine shrugs a little, careful not to jostle Kurt's head on his shoulder. “I have to come to the library a lot. Schuester always sends me, and usually for the most obscure books. Kind of teaches you to find your way around the place after a while.”

Kurt hesitates a moment, keeping his face hidden against Blaine's neck. “...You know how to read?”

Blaine nods, hand still rubbing Kurt's back. “I – yes. I learned … before.”

“Oh.” Kurt is quiet, letting that sink in. It makes him feel inexplicably lighter, knowing that Blaine has had a _before_ , has had enough of a life before this that he'd been old enough to have learned something as simple as reading before he was taken. At the same time, it makes him sad. Because he knows. He understands. He'd been twelve when they'd raided his village, the war had still been going on full force back then, and even after it ended, they hadn't bothered releasing any of the prisoners except the political ones.

He often wonders, if there's anyone still in his village who remembers him, misses him, wonders what's become of him. Sometimes he thinks of his dad and wonders, wonders … but he doesn't even know if he's still alive, if they got him too. Finn is the only one of his family who'd ended up in the same place with him. He hasn't seen another member of his family in over six years.

“I did too,” is what he settles on to say, and he hopes that Blaine understands everything it means, everything it implies. _I had a life too once. They took me away from it too. I know what it's like, losing everything that you love. I know what it feels like, being safe and young and loved and then being ripped away from that, becoming a thing to be ordered around and beaten and used, being suddenly, painfully alone and small and unloved and not safe, never safe, not ever._ It hurts him that Blaine will understand all of this. At the same time, it feels good, having someone who truly understands. Someone who hugs him and is aware of what they're risking, but also knowing what they'd be losing by not doing it.

Blaine squeezes him tighter, and Kurt wants to crawl inside of him and be safe there forever.

“We have each other now,” Blaine whispers. “Don't we?”

Kurt cards his fingers through his greasy curls and shivers, and _wants_ , so much, so many things he can never have again, with all his heart. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

**

The hardest days for Kurt are those when he doesn't get to see his new friend at all.

Sometimes a week or more goes by this way, and there's nothing either of them can do about it. Blaine is usually shut away on the third floor, only allowed into the rest of the castle when the Count sends him on errands that take him to the kitchens, the stables, or the library.

Kurt has no trouble whatsoever admitting it: he misses Blaine on the days he doesn't see him. He may have companionship here on the lower levels of the castle, but real friendships are rare and not something he's been blessed with. He doesn't even get to see his own brother for weeks at a time even if they're just separated by a courtyard. But the space is not theirs to freely move around in and so you either get along with the people traveling the same paths as you or you're lonely. Blaine has made Kurt feel significantly less lonely since his arrival.

However, even when they do see each other, there isn't always the time to talk. Sometimes, all they can manage is a small, hidden smile; some days, it's not even that.

But none of that can stop him from looking forward to the times he does get to spend with Blaine, even if it's just a few minutes here and there. He hasn't had a real friend in so, so long. Not since he was taken from his life and his village and his family to be made the possession of an enemy Count far away from his own home.

Still, no matter how hard it is on _him_ , the hardest part is seeing how unhappy Blaine is all the time, how difficult it is for Blaine, how much he has to endure every single day. How the loneliness gets to him, how scared he is all the time. And he has good reason to be scared, the overseer seems to genuinely hate him and take every opportunity to remind him of it. More often than not Blaine has bruises on his face or his arms, from slaps or from being grabbed and shoved around brutally. Sometimes he walks slowly, limping every step, and those are the days Kurt tries so desperately to get some time alone with him to rub the cooling salve on his back to ease the pain. Lucky for Blaine, he doesn't get whipped all that often, even the overseer knows the kind of damage that does and Blaine needs to be healthy enough to perform his duties. But even a regular beating is bad enough. Kurt knows that from experience.

He wishes there was something he could do – more than anything he wants to take care of Blaine and make things better for him. But he can't. So he settles for small touches, friendly smiles, occasional, quick hugs when they find themselves alone. It's all he has to offer. It doesn't seem like enough, but Blaine takes all of it gladly, returns all of the small gestures with an earnestness that shows better than anything how much they mean to him.

The truth is, Blaine gets to him in a way no one ever has before. He can't seem to ever stop thinking about him. And sometimes when their eyes meet or their hands brush, the rush of tenderness that sweeps through him leaves him breathless; starved as he is for gentleness he just wants more of this feeling all of the time.

And he's well aware of the danger this friendship puts them in, the kind of punishment they'd face if anyone guessed at his feelings for another boy. He already gets beaten up regularly by people who should be on his side. If the overseer or Lord Schuester or anyone else ever heard of any of this – he doesn't want to imagine what they'd do to him. Being a slave makes you worthless. Being gay makes you worse than dead. They could do with him whatever they wanted and no one would bat so much as an eyelash.

He's emptying a bucket of dirty water on a patch of earth in the courtyard when Finn suddenly stops next to him.

“Hey little brother.”

Kurt looks up at him, and there's no way to not smile at him, they never get to see each other anymore. “Finn!”

He's too thin, and there are worry lines around his eyes that shouldn't be there on a face that young, but he smiles all the same, drawing Kurt into a quick hug. “How are you doing?”

Kurt hugs him back hard, squeezing his eyes shut against his shoulder before letting go, taking a step back feeling stronger from the brief contact already. “I'm fine. Thank you. How are you?”

“Oh, you know.” Finn waves a hand, laughing a short, unamused laugh. “Same old, same old. It's getting colder. Not particularly looking forward to the winter months out in the stables. You know how the weather gets.”

Kurt nods his head, worry sinking into his heart. Finn sleeps at the stables along with all the other stable boys, and it gets colder there than it ever gets in the castle – he remembers the previous winter when his brother had caught a cold that lasted for months and he'd been coughing and running a fever and still they hadn't let him off duty for even a single day. He worries about losing him, constantly. They might not see a lot of each other, but Finn is the only family he has left and he loves him. “It should be a few more weeks before the first snow,” he says quietly.

Finn nods. “I know. I'll be fine. How are things at the castle?”

Kurt sighs. There's simply no way they can talk openly, but his look tells Finn everything he needs to know, and he pulls him back into another hug. Kurt clings to him and blinks away the tears. Is this really everything they're ever going to have? He can't imagine that this is going to be their whole life, for the rest of forever. There _has_ to be more than this. There simply has to be.

**

Blaine drags himself down the corridors of the castle on his way to the stables, carrying a message for them to have a carriage ready after dinner. His Master is going away for the night and while that means he's going to be able to turn in early, it also means he has to cross the entire castle to deliver a message, and he has to do it fast because his Master is also waiting for his dinner. And moving is difficult, he's feeling sluggish and slow and dizzy, his mind just wanting to disconnect the way it so often does after a particularly vicious beating – and the overseer hasn't gone easy on him this time. At least he hadn't used the whip, only the cane, and the soft one at that. Blaine supposes he should be grateful for small mercies.

It's probably his own fault for dropping the water jug he'd been supposed to refill – he hadn't meant to let it slip through his fingers, of course not, but sometimes a look from the overseer is enough to make his hands shake so badly they just – can't remember how to do something as simple as gripping.

Kurt is in the entrance hall sweeping the floor and he looks up as Blaine walks past; there's no smile today, people are everywhere around them, they can't risk it. So Blaine walks past, every fiber in his being hurting with the effort to not stop, to not fall into his arms and disappear into him and let himself be held, be cared for. He can't. Not now. Not today. And still, he just – wants. He wants Kurt, so badly he can barely breathe around it. Some days, it's all he can think of: Kurt's presence, Kurt's arms around him, Kurt's lovely voice speaking soothing words to him. It would only take a moment. A moment is all it ever takes. And they're denied even that, that small comfort, even that is always just out of reach for them.

When he walks back through the hall a few minutes later, Kurt is no longer there. Blaine wants to cry.

**

He manages to get his Master's dinner and bring it up to his rooms without dropping it or spilling anything. Then he sits on the floor outside the door, chewing the piece of bread that's his own evening meal, and waits for his signal to clear everything away.

He's called back inside as soon as the Count has finished his food, and he takes away the tray to set down outside the door; he'll take it down to the kitchens later.

For now, he has to help the Count get dressed for the party he'll be attending tonight. He always feels a bit useless, standing around for sometimes half an hour or more while Count Schuester goes over his own wardrobe, choosing, discarding, getting distracted by his books, sometimes humming to himself when he's in a good mood. Tonight, he's in a good mood. There is a lot of humming.

Blaine stands to the side, trying to anticipate the moment he'll be needed. The Count is patient enough when he misses his cues, but sometimes he'll laughingly mention it to the overseer later, apparently completely oblivious of the consequences this has for Blaine. There are always consequences. The Count doesn't seem to be aware of that, or he genuinely doesn't care. Blaine thinks he doesn't notice. He's not a bad guy. Not like the overseer.

“This vest, I think,” the Count says, holding up a monstrous checkered thing that slightly hurts Blaine's eyes from looking at it. “I have never had an opportunity to wear it so far.” He tilts his head, picks out a shirt to go with it, holds both up in Blaine's direction. “This looks great together, doesn't it?”

Blaine doesn't think so, but then, he doesn't understand these things anyway. He nods dutifully. “Yes, sir.”

The Count holds both items out to him and Blaine hurries to take them, hanging the vest up on the hook on the wall and hurrying to shake out the shirt while his Master positions himself in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, frowning at his reflection.

“I'll need a haircut soon,” he muses.

Blaine bites his lip and holds the shirt in his hands, ready to put it on him. He hopes he's not required to reply to the statement. Every possible answer could be an offense. Fortunately, the Count just heaves a sigh, stepping into place in front of the mirror and motioning for Blaine to approach.

Blaine steps forward and raises onto his toes to get the shirt over his Master's head and arms. The movement sparks a fresh flare of pain between his shoulders, the bruises on his back and his sides throbbing uncomfortably, and he winces, he can't help it.

The Count who was just telling him how all of his friends are now letting their hair grow out but how he really doesn't quite see the point of that particular fashion, shakes his head at him with a sympathetic smile. “I've told you a hundred times to get the footstool for yourself before dressing me, you just are ridiculously short. Pulled a muscle again, did you?”

Blaine lowers his eyes, quickly steps around him to sort out the laces on the shirt front. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly. “Sorry, sir.”

“Nonsense,” the Count says, smiling as if they're great friends. “Just be a little more careful in the future. I swear you're clumsy enough for three people. I don't want you incapacitated, I'd have to let Cooter dress me, and,” he winks conspiratorially, “I don't think he'd appreciate the task. Besides. I much prefer your company.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blaine says, manages the small fake smile that's expected of him as he ties off the laces and goes to get the vest.

Count Schuester has already forgotten about him again, is instead putting a stray curl back into place as he examines his own face closely. “Do you think a beard would suit me?”

Blaine holds out the vest, helps him slip into it and smooths it over his shoulders. “Of course, sir.”

The Count beams. “I think so too!”

Blaine starts his work on the buttons and listens with one ear to his Master's rant about mustaches and tries to ignore the pain that's always made worse by exhaustion.

The Count leaves about half an hour later, after having changed his boots three times and Blaine's knees hurt from kneeling on the stone floor to help him in and out of them.

He sighs heavily as soon as the door closes behind his Master, struggles to his feet to start tidying up around the room, which takes far too long because he's tired and sore and because no one is going to check up on him again tonight; as long as this is done by the time the Count comes home, he'll be fine.

Once he's done with all of his tasks, he is, finally, mercifully free to return to his cell and go to sleep early for once. He's aching all over and knows sleep won't come easily, but it's still a relief, being able to just hide away like this for hours without the risk of anyone calling on him again.

For just a moment, he wishes he were allowed to venture out into the castle and wander the halls, maybe run into Kurt somewhere. A friendly word and a gentle touch would be more than welcome on a night like this. But he can't, so he quickly pushes the thought from his mind. Instead, he closes his own door behind himself and, with some difficulty, struggles out of his robe.

Just in his underwear, he lowers himself onto the small cot, careful to not lie on his back. He's always had trouble sleeping on his stomach, so he curls up on his side, staring ahead into the dim light of the room.

The cell does have a window, but it's near the ceiling and tiny and more for ventilation than light, Blaine thinks. It's probably also designed to prevent the inhabitants of this room from jumping to an early and messy death. There's no way a person can fit through it.

Sometimes he still finds it difficult, just closing his eyes and trying to go to sleep in this place. It doesn't feel safe. It never feels safe.

It really _isn't_ safe, not ever, not completely, no matter where he finds to hide away for a moment.

He does know, though, for once, that the overseer won't come for him again tonight. There are no more tasks for him to be done until dawn. No one will even be on this corridor all night long with the Count gone away. He's all alone. But just the absence of danger for one night doesn't make him safe, and he knows it. It doesn't change the place itself, doesn't make it somewhere Blaine is actually considered a person. Letting go and getting some rest is a challenge in a place like this.

Still, he tries, closes his eyes, tries to relax his muscles and slow his breathing. Sometimes he's so tired that's all it takes, all he needs to do to let go of conscious thought and sink into that dreamless, motionless state that usually, eventually leads to sleep.

But tonight, it's earlier than he's usually allowed to retire and he's wound up from an exhausting day, his back is still sore and he simply can't find a comfortable position to rest in. Everything is just wrong and he can't make it right and he feels like crying, bites his lip against it because even if they can't see him and would never know, it would still feel like letting them win.

They haven't broken him yet and he's not going to let them.

He doesn't know how long he lies awake before he finally manages to doze off, falling into an uneasy and fitful sleep. It feels like no time at all when he wakes up again, blinking into the darkness of the room.

For a moment, he's disoriented, not sure what it was that woke him. It wasn't the morning light, it's still pitch black in the room, and it wasn't the usual knocks from the overseer at his door either, all he hears is silence...

Silence, and then the click of his door, a shuffling sound, from _inside_ his room, and he holds his breath, body stiffening, all senses suddenly alert. _What_...

There's a scratching sound and then a flicker and flash of light, a match being lit, and in the flare of light he can just make out the shape of a hand, and then an oil lamp, and the breath drops out of him in a relieved sigh as a familiar profile flickers into view.

“Kurt?”

“Shhh,” Kurt answers, holding the lamp out in front of him, setting it down on the footstool next to Blaine's bed. “Quiet! We have to be quiet.”

Blaine struggles to sit up, can't help the silent whimper as the skin across his back stretches uncomfortably. And as the last fog of sleep lifts, the confusion finally sets in. “What are you doing here? How are you – what if somebody saw you?”

“Nobody saw me,” Kurt says in a firm voice. “And I'm here because I couldn't get a moment with you alone all day and I know what he did to you. I came to help.”

“You -” Blaine gapes at him, and he feels overwhelmed, helpless, speechless. “Kurt, this is dangerous, if they catch you -”

“They won't catch me,” Kurt says, pulling the familiar earthen pot out from under his robe. “Let me see your back, turn around -” He's already reaching for Blaine's bare shoulders, helping him to sit up fully and turn so he's sitting sideways on the bed, back toward Kurt and the lamp.

“It's not that bad,” Blaine attempts lamely. The sad thing is, it's kind of true – he's had much worse. He doesn't even think he's bleeding at all this time.

“No broken skin, at least,” Kurt confirms. “Still. It doesn't look – it must hurt.”

Blaine lowers his eyes, heart clenching at the concern in Kurt's voice. “It does,” he admits quietly.

“I can help with that,” Kurt promises, and his voice is so gentle, so caring, Blaine finally feels safe, just closing his eyes and letting this happen.

He knows this is a bad idea, no matter what Kurt says. The two of them being friends at all is a terrible risk; Kurt taking care of him is even worse. But Kurt sneaking across the castle at night to slip into Blaine's cell and take away his pain with a mysterious kind of medicine he probably stole from someone? It's insane and he knows it, and he sort of doesn't care when Kurt's fingers finally touch his skin, cool and slick with the salve.

It's instant relief, the burning in his back ebbing away until he breathes easier, until he even dares to attempt rolling his shoulders a little bit, trying to work out the kinks in his neck.

“Here, no, let me -” Kurt whispers, and then his hands are sliding up Blaine's back and kneading the muscles in his shoulders, and neck, and upper arms, and Blaine lowers his head, moans with pleasure as the tension rolls out of him in waves.

“Kurt -”

“Does it feel good?”

“Like heaven,” Blaine breathes, eyes closed, little waves of relief shivering through him whenever Kurt hits a particularly tense spot.

He loses track of time like this, it's not like it matters; nothing matters as long as Kurt doesn't stop. It's as if he's massaging the worry, the fear, the discomfort right out of Blaine along with the knots in his muscles, as if he can almost believe that this is all that exists: a small, dimly-lit room, this cot they're sitting on, and the two of them. Blaine and Kurt. Nothing else matters, nothing else has ever been this real before.

His eyes flutter open slowly when Kurt's hands finally stop, gently caressing Blaine's back before disappearing from his skin.

“Blaine -” Kurt whispers, and there's something urgent, something desperate about it.

Carefully, slowly, Blaine shifts on the cot so he's facing Kurt, legs folded under himself to kneel in front of him. “Thank you. So much.”

“You're welcome.” Kurt lowers his eyes, smiles, picks up a rag to wipe the last of the salve from his fingers.

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” Blaine admits in a small voice, and he's never meant anything more in his life. “You're … wonderful.”

Taking Kurt's hands is easy – they often share quick, gentle touches when they're alone. But holding them, feeling his warm palms against his own in a room with only the two of them, at night while no one is watching them … it feels – different. It's like something tugging at his insides, and he knows what it is, he feels it every time he sees him, every time he closes his eyes at night and all he can think of is Kurt's face and the beautiful sound of his lovely voice.

And he doesn't think, doesn't fear, doesn't stop himself. It's done before he can even fully comprehend he's even doing it; he lifts Kurt's hands to his mouth, presses his lips to his knuckles in a soft, tender kiss.

Kurt gasps but doesn't pull away, fingers closing around Blaine's tightly, and Blaine squeezes his eyes shut, heart pounding in his chest before he dares lifting his head and meeting Kurt's eyes across the short distance between them.

Kurt's eyes are wide, full of surprise, his lips forming words but no sound coming out.

“I'm sorry,” Blaine whispers, the reality of what he did finally sinking in, and suddenly he is afraid; if anyone finds out, if anyone knew … no one can know about this, about the way he feels, it is a _crime_...

“Please don't be,” Kurt says, voice shaking a little. “Please don't be sorry, _please_ -”

“Kurt?” Blaine asks, confused, and Kurt finally pulls his hands out of Blaine's, leaves them hovering in the air between them for moment, and Blaine almost feels like he's asking for permission, though for what, he doesn't know.

And then Kurt's hands are cupping his face, so carefully as if he's afraid Blaine might break.

Before Blaine can even understand what is happening, Kurt's face is mere inches from his, their breath mingling between them.

“Please,” he manages, softly, on the end of an exhale, and then Kurt's lips are touching his and all the strength, the last of the tension holding him up, leaves his body as he sinks into the kiss.

It's the first time he's ever been kissed, and it feels – it feels a little wet, a little strangely soft, and it's overwhelmingly intimate. It feels – amazing. Wonderful. Completely and utterly _perfect_.

Kurt's hands are holding him close, he can feel Kurt's nose bump his cheek, and when he lifts his hands to brace himself against Kurt's chest, he can feel the beating of his heart under his palms.

They're kissing. They're kissing, kissing, kissing, and for the first time in a long time, Blaine has found a moment that he actually wants to be completely present in, that he doesn't want to hide away from in one of the many dark corners of his mind.

Kurt is here and Kurt is touching him and kissing him in a way no one ever has before and Blaine feels – safe. This might be the most dangerous thing he's ever done in his life and he's never felt safer, not once that he can remember.

Kurt is the one to pull back first, flickering his eyes open, lips glistening a little from Blaine's mouth. “Is this okay?” he asks, and there's just a hint of fear in his voice, and Blaine knows, Kurt has as much to lose from this as he does.

He hopes that Kurt thinks he has equally as much to gain. “It's perfect,” Blaine assures him, heart pounding away too hard with too many emotions crowding in on him as Kurt smiles at him, and then they're back to kissing and Blaine thinks, if this is what happiness feels like, I don't want it to ever, ever end. _Please_.

**

They don't talk much after that, what is there to say? Kurt doesn't really think there are any words for this, anyway.

It was an impulse, kissing Blaine like that. He hadn't planned it, hadn't thought about it, it's just that Blaine looked at him with so much tenderness and held his hands so gently and pressed his wonderful lips to Kurt's dry knuckles and … something inside of him had just _snapped_ , a need he thought he'd buried long ago. 

Kurt is so, so very relieved that Blaine is all right with this.

He knows, he knows very well what could have happened to him if Blaine weren't, he knows, deep down, he should be a lot more worried than he is. This is dangerous, this is risking everything, risking his _life_ , but then, has his life ever been worth that much at all? And if this is what he gets out of it, these precious moments of holding Blaine in his arms and kissing him and feeling his breath on his lips, and the vibrations of the tiny sounds he makes, to be felt in the skin on his neck, where Kurt's hand is resting in a gentle caress – if this is the best that life is ever going to give him than he can die happy now. Because this all he ever wanted, more than he could ever have imagined having. This is _everything_.

He has never kissed anyone before. Who would he have kissed? Who would have wanted to be kissed by him?

He was too young when he was taken, and he's been a slave ever since, one with no particular interest in women and serving in a kingdom where being gay is a worse crime than being … well, a criminal, a murderer, a rapist, a thief. It's just never even been an option.

Until now.

Blaine has changed everything, and suddenly the risk of it doesn't matter anymore, not when he feels drunk with the feeling of possibility. All that matters is Blaine, Blaine's hands grabbing fistfuls of Kurt's robe, Blaine's gasping breath against Kurt's lips, the warm, naked skin of Blaine's bare shoulders under Kurt's trembling hands.

He never knew. He never knew it would feel like this, like … just like this _much_. He couldn't have known. But now that he does, he can't imagine not knowing anymore, he doesn't know how he's ever managed to live without this. It is addictive.

“Kurt,” Blaine breathes in between kisses, and Kurt shudders against him; there's something about the way Blaine says his name that's so tender and intimate and almost amazed, it's like he's savoring it, tasting it on his tongue, and Kurt thinks his name has never sounded better coming from anyone else's lips.

He cards his fingers through Blaine's hair and arches his back to press their chests together, doesn't want any distance between them. God, he feels starved for touch, for a touch that is good and soft and loving instead of cruel and painful. The way Blaine responds to him, he must feel the same. Kurt is so glad they can share this, give each other this, remind each other what their bodies are capable of beyond breathing and walking and working and pain.

Lost in Blaine and the warmth flooding every cell in his body and leaving him dizzy and breathless, he loses track of how much time passes like this.

Eventually, Blaine is the first to pull back, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark, his lips swollen from their kisses and shining wet from Kurt's mouth. He's breathing heavily, eyes wide as he's trying to form words without making a sound. “Kurt,” is all he finally says, and Kurt understands, feels exactly the same.

“I've wanted this for so long,” he admits, cupping the back of Blaine's neck, tilting their heads together so their foreheads lean against each other, tips of their noses brushing together. “So long, you have no idea.”

“Yes,” Blaine whispers. “So have I. I just never thought, I never imagined ...”

“Me neither,” Kurt whispers back, and Blaine shakes his head, but Kurt presses closer to him, nuzzling their faces together, closing his eyes against the flood of emotions that expand in his chest. “You are -” he breaks off, trying to find the words for what's in his heart. “Blaine, you are so beautiful.”

He can taste the tears on Blaine's lips when they kiss this time and he wonders if anyone's ever told him that before, wonders if anyone has ever loved Blaine at all, and if they have, can Blaine remember it? It hurts so much to think of him going through life without that, Kurt at least has the memory of good things; he hopes Blaine does too, from the _before_ he knows Blaine had.

And he knows the limits to what they're doing, to what they can have. He knows all the ways this is impossible. He also knows all the ways he's going to make Blaine believe that he's amazing and good and beautiful, he's going to make him feel like a person. Blaine deserves it. If it was ever worth it for anyone...

It's almost impossible to stop eventually, to separate his mouth from Blaine's, sway his body back a little to let the cool night air into the space between them, goosebumps rising on his skin more from the absence of Blaine touching it than the actual cold of the room.

“We should -” Kurt starts, unable to finish the sentence. He can't say it, even though he knows he has to do it. “I should go.”

“I know,” Blaine says, eyes still shut tightly. “I know. I know. I don't want you to.”

“I feel the same way,” Kurt assures him. “But if anyone notices ...”

“No, I know, you're right,” Blaine agrees, sighing deeply before leaning in for one more kiss, hard and desperate and needy. “Go. Go, before I can't let you anymore.”

“Blaine,” Kurt says, just that one word, that one name that means more to him than anything. And then he kisses him, one last time, holds his breath to keep back the sob that wants to rip from his throat. This won't be the last time they've done this, they have only just started, after all.

One last look after he's climbed from the cot, their little pretense of a safe haven, Blaine staring up at him with his eyes wide and his chest still bare, and Kurt feels his skin tingle all over with wild, unfiltered affection for him as he picks up his small earthen pot, hiding it in the folds of his drab, gray slave robes. And one more last look, for real this time, when he reaches the door, one hand on the doorknob, Blaine turned on his knees on the thin straw mattress to keep sight of him for as long as he can.

It takes Kurt everything he has in him to not rush back there and climb onto that cot and crawl on top of him, into him, sinking into his arms and never letting go. They can't, but he still wants to. Blaine is beautiful, so beautiful.

His eyes sting as he smiles at him, then opens the door, slips through, pulls it shut behind himself. For a second, he leans back against the rough stone wall next to it, needing his knees to stop shaking quite so badly.

Then, he makes his slow, careful, lonely way back to the ground floor and the dormitory where no one will have noticed his absence, or if they did, they wouldn't tell.

He's not the only one sneaking out at night, even if, to his knowledge, he's the only one sneaking off to see someone he'd get killed for if people knew. No, he's not worried about the people he shares a room with, his bullies are a few dormitories down the hall. But a castle is still a weird place at night and he has to remember to be careful, he has to be so very careful, especially since he is determined do this again as soon as he can.

Maybe not every night, that would be risking too much, they can't get carried away like that. No, not every night, he thinks, but enough nights, as many as he can manage, as many nights as they can get away with...

**

Blaine waits until the door closes behind Kurt before he lets out the breath he'd been holding, and he slowly, carefully, sinks sideways onto his mattress. He still can't lie on his back, even though he feels better now, always better after Kurt has helped him. Kurt is wonderful like that.

Kurt kissed him.

Kurt _kissed him_.

And Blaine kissed Kurt.

They kissed each other.

They just spent a significant amount of time kissing.

It's almost impossible for Blaine to wrap his head around; he never thought anything that good would ever happen to him. The happiness almost hurts, but in a good way – he can still feel the shape of Kurt's hands on his skin, can still taste Kurt's kisses on his lips.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he falls asleep smiling, and wakes up the next morning exactly the same way. His back is sore again and he's too tired, but he feels like he's never, never been happier in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

They don't get to see much of each other the next few days, which is not so unusual, their paths just don't cross, it happens.

The day after their kiss, Blaine passes Kurt once in a ridiculously crowded hallway, Kurt walking in the opposite direction with a bucket of water as Blaine is heading for the kitchens. Kurt's smile is so delighted and beautiful, and Blaine can't help the way his heart leaps in his chest, a little jolt of almost unbearable happiness at the reminder that Kurt cares, that it meant something to him too.

Blaine knows it must mean something, the risk is too great otherwise – if Kurt was merely looking for distraction, there would be better ways to go about it than kissing Lord Schuester's personal servant who doesn't even mingle with the rest of the household unless it is to convey the Master's orders. Kurt could find someone else, someone less risky, someone closer to his own quarters. The fact that he sought out Blaine specifically must mean that it means something, that it's about Blaine, not just companionship. Or at least Blaine hopes that that's what it means.

And then he asks himself why it even matters – even if Kurt was doing the same with five other men on a regular basis, it's not like he'd ever even know. It's not like it would change anything at all between them. They're slaves and therefore not allowed to form personal attachments anyway, and even if they were they'd probably be very, very careful about it because giving your heart away to someone who can be taken away and sold to the highest bidder at any second … 

Blaine knows that even if it were the case, he still wouldn't have been able to stop himself from falling for Kurt. It just … happened. He didn't do it on purpose.

And he thinks that he finally understands why people call it “falling in love,” because that's what it is, it's not a conscious decision, it's not some plan you can make. It just happens. Like it had happened to him when he'd met Kurt, maybe the first time he ever saw him, but for sure that day Kurt took him back to the dormitories to help him, the day Kurt had been so very kind to him it had made him cry.

Blaine's heart had tripped and fallen and there had been no stopping it, just the sight of him and a smile exchanged, soft words spoken to him while gentle hands took care of him for the first time in years, and he'd been in love, deeply, hopelessly, desperately. He doesn't think he could stop loving Kurt now if he tried.

He doesn't want to try.

It feels wonderful and he is determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

It gets harder when the days drag on and they just can't find the time for even a few minutes together, but even this, this quiet tugging at his heart like something is missing, even this is better than what had been before, when all he'd been able to feel had been despair. Now he has something to be looking forward to, even if with every passing day it gets just a little more difficult to be patient and hope for a minute, maybe two, maybe more, why are there so many people in this castle all the time?

It's five days after their kiss when he walks into the library, and he's been sent to find a number of different books, they don't expect him back that quickly, and Kurt is already there, sweeping the floor, lifting his head when he hears Blaine's footsteps approaching down the aisle.

The smile on his face is so wide, so happy, Blaine can't help but rush forward into his arms, Kurt's broom cluttering to the floor a second before his arms wrap firmly around Blaine, almost lifting him off his feet as he grabs him close in a needy, tight hug.

“I missed you,” Kurt whispers, and Blaine presses his face against his neck, breathes in deep, and feels like he just came home.

**

Blaine is on his way to get his Master's breakfast when he sees Kurt mopping the floor in a wide corridor near the courtyard.

He'd like nothing more than to say hello or maybe even stop and talk with him for a bit. But they're not alone – there are two other slaves making their way up the corridor and he can see the overseer lingering by the stairs on the opposite end. So he keeps his head low, keeps walking toward Kurt with the intention of just walking past, maybe they'll at least manage a simple look, no one could say anything about that. And every kind of contact is better than no contact.

But then he's halfway down the corridor when the other two slaves have reached Kurt and one of them, too quickly for anyone who isn't paying attention, slams his shoulder against Kurt's in passing, hard enough to make him stumble backwards helplessly.

Blaine knows it's going to happen before it does – Kurt trips over the water bucket he's always dragging around with him, and the contents spill over the neatly mopped floor, the bucket rolling and clattering away even as Kurt slips and sits down heavily in the puddle of dirty water.

The commotion gets the overseer's attention immediately and he's at Kurt's side with a few quick steps, face red and angry and oddly pleased in that way that always sends shivers down Blaine's spine.

“You'll be mopping that back up again,” he spits down at Kurt, who stares up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

And Blaine keeps his head low and wishes he could do something, wishes he could point out that this wasn't Kurt's fault and that punishing him won't make him work any faster, wishes he could put himself between this cruel man and the person who means more to him than anyone else in the world.

Instead, he stands rooted to the spot, has to watch as the overseer yanks Kurt up roughly by an arm and shoves him to face the wall, unclips the riding crop he's carrying today from his belt.

It happens fast; Kurt's cleaning water-soaked robes get thrown up over his head so that his back is exposed, and then five quick, hard strikes land across his already bruised skin. Blaine feels the loud smack of each strike deep in his bones, feels like he needs to throw up as his stomach turns unpleasantly.

And then the overseer puts the riding crop back onto his belt, leaves Kurt to right his own robes, turns around to the audience of Blaine and the other slaves who are passing through the corridor.

“Everyone back to work,” he shouts, “Or does one of you want to be next? Because I can do this all day!” His eyes land on Blaine, who quickly hurries on, grateful when the overseer strides away without so much as another word.

Blaine stops for a second next to Kurt, quickly checking that the overseer has really turned the corner by the stairs and is gone for now. “Are you all right?”

Kurt throws him a panicked look. “What are you – Not here!”

“I just -”

“Later,” Kurt insists, and bends down to pick up his bucket, face contorting with pain. “Move! Go on, go!”

And Blaine nods once, shakily, and complies, because Kurt is right, they can't risk it and this happens all the time. But more than ever he wishes he weren't so completely powerless.

He doesn't see him again for the entire rest of the morning and the afternoon, and he can't stop thinking about the incident that morning – he's never seen Kurt being punished before. He's seen the aftermath of it, he's seen other slaves being punished countless times and much more viciously. But he's never seen it happening to Kurt, and all through the day the image of someone deliberately causing him pain and taking pleasure in hurting him doesn't leave him and makes him feel so sick he just can't shake it.

He can't understand it. He doesn't want to, but he also just _can't_. It makes no sense, that anyone in this world could ever want to hurt Kurt; Kurt is the best and kindest person he has ever met. It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't be happening to any of them, but it hasn't made him feel sick like this in years.

In the evening he's waiting, like most evenings, for his Master's meal outside the kitchen when Kurt once again rounds the corner with his cleaning bucket.

Blaine feels his heart leap in his chest, and he uses the time Kurt is approaching to sweep his eyes up and down the hallway, but it's empty, as usual. No one ever seems to come here except for Blaine. And Kurt, when he joins him here.

“Hey,” Blaine says, a little desperately, as Kurt sets his bucket down next to Blaine's bench, kneels down to start scrubbing.

Kurt smiles at him, pausing in his work for a moment because no one is here anyway. “Hello.”

“Are you all right?” Blaine asks, worried, looking at him intently as if the practiced mask of calm Kurt is used to wearing would ever actually tell him anything.

“I'm fine,” Kurt assures him.

“I'm sorry,” Blaine blurts out, feels his face heat up with shame, he's been holding onto this all day. “I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything, I just -”

“No!” Kurt drops the rag from his hands, sits back on his heels to put a hand on Blaine's knee, eyes quickly flickering up and down the hallway before looking back at him. “Blaine, you could not possibly have done anything, you have _nothing_ at all to be sorry for.”

“I should have -”

“This stuff just happens,” Kurt interrupts him. “You know that better than anyone. It happens to you probably three times more often than it does to me. I'm _fine_. You saw it. You were there. He went easy on me.”

Blaine covers Kurt's hand with his own, breathes deeply. “I wish it had been me,” he admits quietly. “If I could have made it so that it had been me instead -”

“Don't even think that!” Kurt's eyes are hard, determined, and still so affectionate on his. “Please, don't even think like that for a second.” He flickers a small, insecure smile at him, “I know that you care, and you have no idea how much that means to me. But if you had interfered today it would probably just have been the whip for the both of us. It's better this way.”

“I still feel horrible,” Blaine says miserably. “You have helped me so many times, and I, I just don't know how -”

“It's not a competition,” Kurt points out. “Please don't get hurt over trying to even some made-up score in your head. And besides,” he squeezes his knee once before letting go, they can't push their luck too much. “You do help me. All the time.”

Blaine shakes his head, smiles because Kurt is being entirely ridiculous. “You don't have to say that. And I am trying to make sure that you are okay right now, can we talk about that instead?”

“No,” Kurt says, and looks right at him stubbornly. “We can't, because you need to know this, Blaine. You do help me. How many friends like you do you think I have? You're special to me. You make me _happy_. And I think I had almost forgotten what that felt like before I met you. Don't pretend like that's nothing.”

Blaine looks at him and he has never wanted to kiss him this badly before, but he can't, not here, not now. So instead he keeps his eyes on him and for one blissful, long moment, there is no darkness in the world at all.

And then Kurt looks away and stretches for his bucket to drag it closer, and winces as he shifts his back in a way that presses against the bruises there.

“Kurt -” Blaine starts, but Kurt just grabs for the bucket again and this time manages to drag it over to where he's sitting successfully.

“I'm fine, Blaine,” he says again. “I mean it. Just a little sore. But you know we have both had much worse.”

“That doesn't mean I like seeing you like this,” Blaine answers sadly. “I just wish I could make it better!”

“And that's more than I've had in a long time,” Kurt says calmly. “It's all I need.”

“You know Finn cares too if you're hurt,” Blaine points out, who has met Kurt's tall, good-natured brother a few time at the stables now.

Kurt looks up at him, and his smile is so gentle. “You know that's hardly the same thing,” he says softly. “What I feel for you is a lot different. You know that.”

Blaine nods, can't look away. “You know it's mutual,” he whispers, and Kurt quickly touches his knee again, just a brief, soothing touch, before he finally turns back to his cleaning.

**

It's been a month since their first kiss and they've had moments here and there, little stolen moments in dark corners and alcoves and the library and it's not enough, it's just never enough. He wants Blaine all the time, he needs him so desperately, and there's just nothing, nothing at all he can do to ease the pain of knowing that this is all they can have, all they'll ever be able to get away with.

The more they get to do this, be together like this, the more Kurt feels like one of these days he just won't be able to let go of Blaine anymore.

He wants to run away. He thinks about it, more and more often over the course of his long, busy days, thinks about finding a way out of this castle and this life and running away with him, taking him some place safe, some place far away from here where they'll be treated like people instead of property.

Home, he thinks. Could take him home.

And then he wonders – does home even still exist? Not just the way he remembers it, but … at all? They'd knocked him unconscious in the middle of the fight all those years ago, and Finn too; they both hadn't woken up until they'd been miles from their village, and he'd never even known what they'd done with it … And yes, he still wonders. Because it still hurts. The loss of his home, but most of all the loss of his father, and he wonders, he wonders …

It's one of the rare days he gets sent to the stables, and even though winter is setting in full force by now and it's snowing and the wind is sharp and unforgiving, he happily sets out in the bitter cold in his thin robes to slip and slide across the courtyard and down the narrow path to the place where the only family he has left currently spends their days.

He never gets to see Finn anymore; he's always pleased to be sent to the stables no matter what kind of weather he has to brave for it.

Finn hugs him and then gets the horse ready that Kurt sent for for the overseer and Kurt waits so he can go back and report that the horse is ready.

In the meantime, he sits down on a wooden chest, legs dangling in the air, and watches Finn work.

“Do you ever think about home?” The words are out before he can stop them. It's like an unspoken agreement, to not talk of home too often, to not rip open the wound again and again even though it never really does heal over properly.

Finn's hands falter for a second as he grooms the horse's coat, his breath hitching. “All the time, actually.”

Kurt nods, silent for a minute or two. “Do you think – they're still alive? Dad and Carole?”

Finn sighs, biting his lip. “I can't think of them any other way. I don't want to, I don't want to imagine -” He shakes his head resolutely. “I mean, they weren't even there that day, who knows what happened, maybe somebody warned them not to come back too soon, they could be fine -”

Kurt nods. This is not the first time they have speculated about what happened to their family after they were taken. He doubts it will be the last time.

Their parents had been away to the nearest city to get supplies the day the Westerville army had invaded Lima – the soldiers had killed everyone not useful to them and taken those young and fit enough to work. Kurt doesn't know what happened to the rest of the people from his village. He'll never know why he and Finn weren't separated, and if he believed in any of the gods he might thank them for it. As it is, he's just relieved, so incredibly relieved, that he at least got to keep his brother when everything else had fallen apart. It's strange to feel relief at all connected to a situation so impossible.

“I keep thinking about them coming back to the village and finding it raided, and us gone, and I feel, I feel -” he breaks off, can't finish the thought.

Finn walks around the horse, quickly checking that no one is nearby, before putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know, little brother. I know. That same thought has been plaguing me for years too.”

“When the war ended, they must have wondered why we didn't come home,” Kurt says. And it's not the first time they've talked about this either, it's been eating away at him every day since the war ended over two years ago. “I don't get it,” he says, for what he is sure is the hundredth time. “Slavery wasn't even legal at home, how did no one make our release a part of the peace treaties? How could the king leave half his subjects in Westerville captivity even after the war was over?”

Finn shrugs, his face drawn and bitter. “Probably to protect the rest of them. We're the sacrifice buying their safety.”

Kurt lowers his head. “I know. But … I want to go home. And I want to take everyone here with me. This isn't a _life_. This is – it is -”

“I know,” Finn says. “I know.”

They don't talk about it any more that day. There's no point. This _is_ their life now and there's nothing they can do to change it, not even if Kurt so desperately wants to do something about it. Now more than ever, actually; he crosses paths with Blaine once he gets back to the castle that afternoon and Blaine is limping, a large, purple bruise showing on the side of his face.

Kurt feels like crying.

There is no time to stop and there are too many people around anyway, but sometimes he just doesn't know how he can let this go on, how he can be entirely unable to find a way to make this better. He can't even find a way to make them stop hurting Blaine, and gods, every bruise on Blaine's skin he feels like it's his own pain. Yes, if there ever was a reason to find a way out of it, Blaine is that reason more than anything, he just wants him _safe_.

But he has no idea how to accomplish that.

All he can do in the meantime is go about his day and hope that some night this week he'll find the opportunity to sneak off to Blaine's cell again. He needs him. And he has a feeling that Blaine needs him too.

At least they have this, as unsatisfying as it is sometimes. It's more than he's ever had since he was brought here and whatever happens, whatever he needs to do to make sure they can be together, he'll do it.

He's absolutely prepared to take risks for this, more than he's ever been. At the same time, being safe has never been this important before. Because more than anything, he knows that he can't leave Blaine alone in this, not ever.

They're in it together now, bonded in a way he can't quite grasp just yet.

But he does know that he'll do whatever it takes to make Blaine as safe and as happy as he possibly can in this impossible situation. That's really all he wants.

**

The cell is dark and not too cold thanks to being on the same corridor with Schuester's suite on it, but it's still kind of drafty and he has to wrap himself up in the thin blanket they gave him now that it's steadily getting colder outside. It's late and his mind is foggy, on the verge of drifting off to sleep when the door slowly, slowly creaks open.

He lifts his head, drowsy, and Kurt hasn't been back many times since that night on which they first kissed, but Blaine just knows it's him, even before the match flickers and then the oil lamp lights up the tiny room. Who else would it ever be?

Kurt crosses the small space between the door and Blaine's cot, setting the oil lamp down on the footstool exactly like last time, and Blaine can't even fully shake off the fogginess of almost-sleep before Kurt is lowering himself onto the small straw mattress next to him, sliding in under Blaine's blanket so their bodies are laying pressed together in the too-narrow space.

Blaine's body seems to know what to do even if his mind is slow catching up, he makes room for him instinctively and then presses in close again as soon as Kurt is lying beside him, shivering pleasantly when Kurt's arms draw him into a hug before Kurt leans in fully, touching his lips to Blaine's.

Kissing is different lying down, Blaine is surprised to discover. It's closer, warmer somehow with them sharing a blanket, with their legs tangled together and Kurt's fingers carding through his hair. It's comfortable and lazy and entirely wonderful because he can feel Kurt everywhere and he feels so safe, so protected when Kurt rolls him onto his back to slide on top of him like a shield against the outside world; Blaine just closes his eyes and feels held and protected under Kurt's solid body on top of him.

Their kisses get deeper, messier like this, and Blaine lets Kurt lead them, trusts him completely. Whatever Kurt wants, he's sure he wants it too, he just wants everything with Kurt, whatever he can get.

And he can feel it, humming under his skin, pooling in his groin, the first stirring pull of arousal making his blood run a little hotter.

He's never been with anyone like this before, he hadn't even kissed anyone before Kurt. He knows what the feeling means, and sometimes he's woken up feeling this, his body just … _needing_ , and those had been the mornings he'd rushed off to one of the washroom stalls at his old place, quickly taking care of the problem while sinking his teeth into his own knuckles to muffle his sounds. At this place, he'd actually had the privacy of a room where he could quickly – dispose of the problem, but it doesn't happen often anymore, his body being too on edge, too exhausted.

He'd always kind of liked doing it even when it was rushed, he'd always liked the feeling of pleasure, the feeling that, for a moment, just flooded all of him with a feeling of _good_. He'd liked being in control of it, giving his body something it needed, feeling connected to it and good in his skin instead of it just being a thing to be hurt by everyone else, a thing to be made to feel pain. But that's all it's ever been to him and while he knew, from overheard conversation and crude comments, what that particular action was actually _for_ , he still has kind of no idea what it would even entail, doing it with someone. It's all a rather vague concept, and yet here he is, and he has a feeling that he's about to find out a lot more about it at last.

Excitement curls in his belly as Kurt kisses him hungrily, stretches out on top of him. Gods, he loves this man. Wherever this leads is fine with him, because he'll give Kurt anything, everything, he doesn't even have to ask. It's all his anyway. All Blaine wants is for Kurt to feel good, as good as he's making Blaine feel all of the time.

So he wraps his arms around him in a hug, holds on, lets Kurt kiss him in whatever way he wants.

The feeling between his legs grows stronger, more intense, and it makes his breath come shorter as he feels himself swell and harden, want curling hotly deep in his belly. He doesn't know what to do about it, doesn't know what's okay, or if Kurt even feels the same.

But then Kurt lowers his hips down to Blaine's, and he can feel it, feel _him_ , the hardness of him nudging against Blaine's belly and he breaks away from the kiss, gasping.

“Is this all right?” Kurt whispers, too much breath behind his voice, and Blaine can feel himself twitching and throbbing as Kurt's body presses down, delicious friction against that swollen part of him...

“Yes,” he gasps, “Yes, yes, _yes_ -”

Kurt takes charge and Blaine is only too happy to follow, his body has never felt so cared for as when Kurt carefully peels away their clothes, robes, underwear, until they're naked, Kurt's skin paler than his in the soft light from the single oil lamp, and bare skin on bare skin feels like his heart being split open, his soul pouring out and into Kurt and his own cells filling with the love Kurt kisses into his skin.

It's different than doing it by himself, and not just because for the first time in his life he has the time to actually feel, to actually fully enjoy every second of anticipation, toe-curling desire, and throbbing want coursing through him.

And then it's -

A wave of white-hot pleasure so all-consuming he can't even make a sound, a rush of incredible, blissful release so intense his body arches high up off the bed, every muscle seizing up as his fingers curl into Kurt's skin and heat spikes from his groin to the very tips of his fingers and toes until all that exists is _good good oh gods so good_ -

Kurt holds him afterwards when he's still shaking and trembling from the overload of sensations, his skin tacky with sweat and the sticky coolness of their release, mixed together on his stomach.

Kurt is trembling as well, his face pressed tight against the curve of Blaine's neck, his breath loud and shaky in the quiet room.

“Blaine,” is all he says, whispers, and it sounds like a prayer, like his name is precious, like it's important.

Blaine holds him back and loves him so much it aches, so much he can barely catch his breath.

He doesn't know what he's ever done right to deserve this man in his arms, not when the world is so set on constantly reminding him of his worthlessness.

But he's not going to question it, he's not going to waste a second of this with doubt.

Kurt is a gift and Blaine couldn't let him go if he tried.

He has never loved anyone like this. And to know Kurt cares for him too – it's almost more happiness than he can bear.

**

It's fascinating, he thinks, how his entire world can change and life still remains the same.

Because the world is different now, or maybe he is different, or maybe it's just the way he sees things, looks at them, feels them.

The overseer still beats him viciously and pushes him around. Schuester still doesn't care how many bruises he has as long as he does his job. He's still cut off from the rest of the castle, kept separate in their lonely corridor. He is still a slave, a thing, someone else's property.

He still wakes up dreading every day, but the crushing hopelessness of his life, the looming despair always right there at the back of his mind – it's dulled, now, still there, but … _less_. It's not controlling his life anymore.

His days are still endless and painful and horrible, but instead of living and floating in this foggy haze of despair, he's now slowly dragging himself through it, he has motion again, he has something to hold onto again, he is no longer drowning.

Kurt's love is a balm on his sore heart, a protective coat against the cruel coldness of the rest of the world. Kurt's love can't keep his skin from bruising, and while his salve can take away the sharp edge of the physical pain, he can't make the hopelessness of this life ache any less. But he can make it so that it is not the only thing Blaine can feel anymore. There's more in his life now, there's something better, something lighter, and he still dreads every day but now he looks forward to it too, because if it's a good day, he'll get to see Kurt. If it's a very good day, he'll even get to kiss him, get to feel his arms around him, get to feel the beating of his heart against his own.

He loves him.

It doesn't fix the world, it doesn't fix anything, not even himself, but it makes it all just a little more bearable.

Kurt keeps visiting him at night, as often as he can.

Blaine never knows when it might happen, they can't talk about it outside of this room, can't risk anyone finding out. So there's no signal, no agreed-upon nights, no way to know for sure when it will happen. Sometimes it's two nights in a row. Sometimes it doesn't happen in over a week. But no matter how long he has to wait, Blaine knows, with absolute certainty, that Kurt will always, always come back to him. Kurt will never abandon him. They have each other now. They take care of each other. Nothing will keep them apart forever.

It's the blackest part of the night when Kurt comes to him again this time, slips under the blanket next to him, starts working down Blaine's underwear without a word, and then his own, settling between his thighs and starting to thrust, grinding them together hard, almost desperate, clinging tightly and panting wetly against the skin of Blaine's neck.

It doesn't take long, but it feels amazing, Kurt moans and shudders in his arms and Blaine comes so hard the entire world turns white and he needs a long while to find back to himself.

He opens his eyes, breath still too fast and skin still humming and buzzing with aftershocks, and Kurt cradles his face in his hands, looks at him with such wide-eyed, overwhelmed tenderness.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, looking back at him, feeling Kurt's thumbs caress the skin underneath his eyes.

“I love you,” Kurt says, and his voice trembles on the words, a shaky exhale, and he leans his forehead against Blaine's carefully.

Blaine closes his eyes, can't contain everything he's feeling, it feels like he's going to burst with the magnitude of his emotions, sometimes he doesn't know how to keep breathing around all of it. “I love you too,” he whispers. “So much, gods, Kurt -”

Kurt kisses him, softly and so gently, cards his fingers through Blaine's curls and drapes his naked, warm body all over him.

Blaine kisses back, soft, almost innocent kisses, just their lips moving together gently. Their bodies are satisfied for now. Their souls are still straining to get closer, closer, always closer...

It's a wonderful feeling, being loved like this.

**

Kurt knows he's taking risks, he's so very well aware of that, and he knows what's at stake. He knows it so very well. And yet, what is he supposed to do? There simply is no other way. If this life ever is supposed to be good for anything, the risks he's taking are the only thing that have ever been worth it. Because every risk he takes is for Blaine. And Blaine is worth more than anything.

He loves him. He loves him so utterly, so completely, he doesn't know how there's still room for anything else in his heart. Blaine means the world to him. There's nothing he wouldn't do for him. He'd die for him.

So he thinks. And he plans. And he talks to people, not very many people, just a few he is certain he can trust. He talks to Finn, takes any excuse to venture out into the stables, which, in the bitter cold of winter, is an easy thing to accomplish. No one wants to cross the icy courtyard more often than necessary since the kitchen and cleaning staff doesn't get issued winter-thick robes.

Kurt thinks he knows what he has to do, but it's the riskiest thing he's ever done in his life. Only if he succeeds, he can save Blaine, and himself, and honestly, if it saved Blaine he'd do anything. He _loves_ him. 

He doesn't know, can't understand how it happened, he'd never meant to fall in love with anyone. He's been planning escape pretty much since they captured him and Finn, and been really working on a plan ever since they'd heard that the war ended. Now, more than ever, he knows he has to find a way, but it's not only Finn and himself anymore. He's not going anywhere without Blaine, not ever. They belong to each other now, in every way imaginable. He's given Blaine not only his heart, but everything, all of him, every single part of him that was his to give is now Blaine's, to do with as he pleases because Kurt is helpless against this feeling, and it doesn't even scare him like he had expected it to.

Having been a slave all those years, the very idea of belonging to anyone is appalling to him, but when it's Blaine he belongs to, it's entirely different. He wants to be Blaine's as much as he wants Blaine to be his. There is nothing restrictive about the feeling of belonging to him. All it feels like is freedom, and safety, and a love so big he can't wrap his head around it, can't handle it sometimes. Blaine means everything to him and he had forgotten what happiness _meant_ until they'd shared their first kiss all those weeks – _months_ – ago.

Now happiness is a tangible thing, it's Blaine's skin under his hands, Blaine's lips against his own, his fingers in Blaine's hair. It's Blaine's panting breath against his shoulder when they make love, the salty taste of sweat on his skin when Kurt presses his open mouth to his neck moments before finding release, it's Blaine moaning, trembling, arching underneath him when he comes, shaking and clinging to him and whispering words Kurt's love-starved heart has been longing to hear for so very, very long.

Happiness is the affection shining out of Blaine's eyes when he looks at Kurt, it's the lovely, rich sound of his voice, the kindness and gentleness of his touch. It's the goodness of his heart, the softness that even years of slavery haven't been able to break.

It's … _him_. Blaine. He's Kurt's happiness, Kurt's whole entire world, and by the gods and everything that is still good in this life, Kurt will change the world for him if he has to. He wants him safe. He wants him unhurt. With everything he has in him, he knows he wants to protect him, to get him away from this place.

So he plots, and he plans, and he thinks for the first time in a long time, he's actually really getting somewhere.

He doesn't count on being yanked up by rough hands one day when he's cleaning the floor in the small audience room, being dragged off to the dungeons by the overseer and shoved into a cell, the heavy wooden door banging shut behind him and then … nothing. Blackness. Silence. The cold, damp, moldy smell of moss-covered stone walls, thick and ancient and fencing him in.

That hadn't been part of the plan at all.

He sits up, his shoulder aching where he'd hit the stone floor, and all he sees is darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter deals heavily with grief. It contains events that may be shocking and unexpected. Proceed with caution, but I promise you that it will all be resolved.** I also am not ending this chapter on a cliffhanger. You will have a resolution by the end of it.

Blaine doesn't see Kurt the entire day, and it makes him sad, but it's not unusual. It's a big castle. Sometimes their paths just don't cross. He doesn't think anything by it when he doesn't see him the next day either. The third day of not even a casual sighting in the hallways is when he finally starts worrying, just a little.

It might just be that Kurt is busy elsewhere. It might just be that their tasks keep having them constantly at opposite ends of the castle, it might be that they're just having some really bad luck these past few days.

And yet he can't shake the feeling gnawing away at him that something is very, very wrong and he has absolutely no control over it, he cannot even ask anyone if they've seen Kurt or to give him a message. All he can do is wait, which is really not very satisfying at all. Especially when he misses him and needs him and wants nothing more than even just a glimpse of his face that's so dear to him.

After a week of absolutely no contact he happens to see Finn, the stable boy, cross the yard while he's emptying Schuester's wash basin into the drain outside the kitchens – he knows that Finn is Kurt's brother and that if anyone knows anything, he'll be the one to ask; he'd also be the only one who wouldn't give them away if he knew. Probably. But he doesn't know how to approach him, he can't think of a way that wouldn't raise suspicion immediately. He has no business talking to a stable boy without the Count's express command to do so.

So he watches him make his way slowly across the yard, and his heart sinks as he notices how pale he looks, how tired, how sad. It's not unusual for the slaves at this place to look that way, and yet Finn is usually one of the happiest people he's ever met, nothing can get him down for long, so of course he notices him looking pale and exhausted and he thinks...

If anything happened to Kurt, if anything happened -

He pushes the thought away, shaking the last drops from the basin and turning to head back inside before the overseer can decide he's dallying and punish him for it.

Everything will be fine, it's only been a week. And while that's the longest time they have ever gone without seeing each other, he's sure there's a perfectly reasonable and harmless explanation. Worrying won't help anyone right now.

So he goes about his day the way he always does, keeps his head down, tries not to draw attention to himself when he can help it. Everything will be fine.

**

An opportunity arises when, three days later he's finally being sent to the stables to convey Lord Schuester's orders for a carriage to be ready after lunch to take him to Lady Pillsbury's for dinner and dancing that night.

For once Blaine is only too happy to be sent all the way across the castle grounds in the cold and uninviting winter weather, hurries across the courtyard where the ice is slowly starting to melt, slipping and sliding in the slush but too caught up in what he knows he wants to do to even notice the dirt splashing and staining his robes.

Finn is alone, thank the gods, and Blaine runs up to him, braces himself with both hands against a wooden beam to stop his momentum right next to where Finn is re-stacking sacks of oats.

“Lord Schuester needs a carriage ready after lunch,” he pants, pressing a hand to his stomach as he tries catching his breath. “He wanted me to let you know.”

Finn looks up, and he looks even thinner, worry lines clearly visible on his young face. “It'll be ready,” he promises. “You needn't have run like that, it's still an hour until lunch time at least -”

“I wanted to -” Blaine swallows, trying to tamp down his nerves and the rapid beating of his fearful heart. Finn probably knows anyway. He's Kurt's brother. He has to ask him, it's been ten days, anything could have happened - “I was just wondering if you – I mean, I just noticed, the last few days, that -”

Finn's eyes widen as understanding sinks in, and yes, Blaine was right, he does seem to know. “You came about Kurt. No one told you. Oh gods -”

Blaine nods. “I haven't seen him in days and I was just wondering – I'm worried,” he admits, quietly.

Finn's face falls, lips pressed together tightly as his eyes fill with tears. Blaine can see his gaze darting around the space and there are people walking in, only stable boys, but still, no one can hear, no one can know...

Finn looks straight at him, and his eyes are unreadable. There's pain edged into his features, a pain Blaine fears more than anything. Quietly, Finn says, “Kurt was thrown in the dungeons for stealing from the kitchens ten days ago.”

“Oh, I -” Blaine draws a shaky breath, and his hands feel numb. “Are they going to let him out, is he – they're not going to – are they - ?”

Finn shakes his head, and he looks like he's about to cry. “He was killed six days ago. Stabbed by another prisoner in a fight.”

...And Blaine feels his legs collapsing underneath him, doesn't know if there are more words, can't hear anything over the buzzing in his ears. He's faintly aware of people kneeling down beside him, asking him if he's okay, but he doesn't understand what they mean, can't even find his voice to answer if he did understand the words.

Nothing matters anymore.

He's not fine. 

Kurt is gone.

He's alone.

All he feels is emptiness, an ache in his chest like a gaping hole, and darkness. Only darkness.

**

He loses track of time, can barely remember whether it's day or night or how many days have passed since his world came crashing down.

He gets up when the sun rises and goes to sleep when he's sent away for the night. He eats when the cooks make him, because some of them start noticing the way he loses weight, the way he drags his feet because he has no energy to walk properly.

No one can know, no one can ever find out what made him this way, but he can't pretend that his world did not end, he can't even hold his head up or straighten his shoulders or even speak a single word unless he has to.

The overseer beats him for being slow, beats him again more brutally the next day when there's no improvement, then gets out the whip on the third day when Blaine still won't show any signs of picking up his pace.

It hurts, the same way it always hurts, but the physical pain pales in comparison to the way he's hurting on the inside.

They can beat him all they want. They can kick him and call him names and push him and shove him and slap him across the face until he's bruised all over, it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore. He has already lost everything and nothing is ever going to be all right again. Not without Kurt. Without Kurt, he doesn't even have the strength to try anymore.

So he does the only thing he can, which is to survive, even if that is now a questionable goal in his mind – what does he have left to live for? But he knows, somehow knows, deep down, that Kurt would want him to.

Kurt loved him. Kurt cared about him.

But he's still gone and Blaine still knows he won't be able to be happy ever again, he's used up all the happiness meant for him during the moments he spent in Kurt's arms, the moments when nothing could touch him at all, nothing except Kurt and Kurt's love.

Missing him is like a dark fog over all of his days, like a cold, empty space in his heart. Some days, all he can do is miss him until he aches, and those are the days he finds the strength to cry, which he hasn't done a lot so far – his loss is too big for tears, too enormous to even comprehend, what is crying going to help?

But some nights, he does cry, alone in his cell, waiting for the creaking of the door that never comes. That never will come again.

Kurt would want him to live, but if one of these days the overseer goes too far and kills him, that's not Blaine's fault, is it? That could never count as letting Kurt down. He doesn't think so. He hopes not. Because … sometimes he almost hopes for it, for just something to put an end to this hell he's living every single day of his life.

He waits for the door to creak and the light to come in, but of course it doesn't happen.

It's all over now.

**

Spring arrives with full force a month later, with birds singing and flowers blooming and fresh green leaves on the trees in the courtyard. Windows are opened all over the castle to let out the stale air of winter and invite the fresh air of spring inside.

To Blaine, the days remain gray and dull, he sees the colors, but they have no meaning anymore. Because Kurt isn't there to see them, what's the point of all the beauty if the most beautiful thing in the world no longer exists?

He's waiting outside the kitchens for his Master's lunch, standing in his half-dream state only noticing what's relevant, when Finn walks past, and they haven't seen each other a lot since that day in the stables, but Blaine can't help but notice that Finn looks – a lot healthier than he used to.

“Blaine,” Finn says, stopping next to him after quickly checking that the area is clear.

“Hello,” Blaine greets back, doesn't even attempt a smile. His face doesn't remember how to work the muscles necessary for that.

Finn lowers his voice, eyes darting around nervously. “Can you make up an excuse to come to the stables later today?”

Blaine frowns. “I doubt it. Why?”

“Never mind.” Finn waves a hand through the air. “I'll think of something. I'll find you. Don't worry about it.”

And before Blaine can say anything, Finn is already hurrying off, without further explanation.

Blaine shakes his head, resumes his waiting, decides not to think about what that meant. He can't afford to get into trouble.

**

Finn finds him in the courtyard where he's hanging up Schuester's blankets on a clothes line to air them out after the long winter. It's a cold day and no one is nearby and for once, the overseer is busy on the other end of the castle, so Blaine takes the time to even look up when Finn approaches him.

“Hello,” he greets, again.

Finn looks around, obviously making absolutely sure that no one could possibly be listening in, hunches over a little to make sure the blankets on the clothes line are hiding both of them from view. “So, Blaine,” he starts. “There is something I need to talk to you about, but you have to promise to keep absolutely quiet about it.”

“Finn,” Blaine says, sighing. “Who would I even tell?”

“Right,” Finn says, not really looking convinced. “Kurt said … he used to say that I could trust you and to make sure you were on board, so -”

Blaine swallows down the tears that rise up at the mention of Kurt's name, he doesn't think that name will ever stop hurting him. “What is this about?”

“I can't say much,” Finn almost whispers. “Just – you're going to have to trust me, okay? If you want out of here, meet me in exactly two days at the north wall by the forest gate at midnight. Make sure to be there not much earlier than that, but not much later either or I won't be able to wait for you. Can you do that?”

Blaine blinks. “I'm not sure I understand -”

“I'm offering you a way out of here,” Finn repeats, giving him a long look. “You should take it.”

“If they catch us -”

“Could anything be worse than this?” Finn says, and there's despair in his eyes, a feeling Blaine knows only too well.

“They'll kill us.”

“Then at least it will be over,” Finn says, and Blaine swallows hard again.

“You make an excellent point.”

“But they won't catch us,” Finn assures him. “I have a plan in place. Don't be late,” he adds, turning to go, but Blaine quickly reaches out, catching the edge of his sleeve to make him stop.

“Why are you doing this? Why … me?”

Finn shrugs. “You're a good guy. And also, Kurt insisted, he was, in fact, always very stubborn about this,” is all he says, and walks away quickly.

Blaine blinks back the tears and goes back to work, and it's all so … pointless, isn't it? Yes, he'll take the way out, because he might as well. Either it'll get him killed or it'll make him be free. Either way, his life cannot get any worse than it is now.

It just seems horribly cruel to finally be presented with a way out when the only thing he really wants is already gone forever.

Still, he'll try. He'll try to get away and live a better life because he knows it would have made Kurt happy to know that he didn't have to suffer anymore every day of his life. He knows it's what Kurt would have wanted for him, and even now, all he wants is to do everything for him.

He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of pain, has to press his hands to his stomach for a second as he pauses in his work. “For you,” he whispers. “I'll do it for you.”

**

He barely sleeps the next few nights, but then, he barely sleeps at all anymore, and when he does, it's fitful and uneasy. His grief-heavy limbs yearn for rest but his mind can't let go of consciousness – Kurt's face is there every time he closes his eyes and as lovely and soothing as the dreams are, they only make his loss hurt that much more when they end.

It's not that he wants to forget, he never wants to forget. The memory of him is better than having nothing of him left at all. But sometimes he doesn't know how to handle it, being the one left living in this world in which Kurt doesn't exist any longer. Sometimes it feels like he can't do it, sometimes he thinks, if I just close my eyes maybe he'll be there when I wake up, maybe it's a bad dream, nothing more.

Nothing ever changes. It's not a nightmare. It's just the world he's living in.

On the third night, just as agreed, he meets Finn by the north wall a few minutes after midnight.

Sneaking out is easier than he had thought it would be, no one pays much attention to slaves at night as it turns out. Because, after all, where would they go anyway? There's nowhere to run to, nowhere that would be safe. And the punishment for being caught is severe, everyone knows without having to be told. As a slave, he also knows the quickest ways around the castle, the quiet corridors and back staircases and all the narrow tunnels and secret hallways that were probably for escape or hiding once but are now only being used by the servants. No one ever knows a house like the servants do.

Finn is waiting for him already, and Blaine realizes why the time was so specific – the guards have passed the gate on their round and won't be back for another fifteen minutes at least.

“Are you ready?” Finn whispers.

Blaine shrugs. “Ready for what?”

Finn grins. “I told you I had a plan!” Blaine watches, wide-eyed, as Finn reaches into his robes and produces … it's a long flat piece of rough metal with a worn wooden handle, it's -

“A file,” Blaine hisses. One of the many items slaves can never get their hands on, and Finn is standing here holding it like, like - “Where did you get that?”

Finn motions for him to turn around and keep a lookout as he starts filing away at the iron bolt keeping the gate locked. “A friend,” he says quietly, and thankfully it's a windy night, the constant howl of it almost drowning out the sound of the file.

Still, Blaine feels nervous, every time he checks Finn seems to have barely made any progress at all and the guards will be back eventually, and once they have the gate open they will still have to outrun anyone who'll be in pursuit of them, five minutes after they've made their escape at the very latest...

“What's the plan?” he asks, carefully, voice low.

Finn throws him a quick look, never ceasing to file away at the metal, and finally it looks like there's a considerable dent in the bolt; not much longer, not much longer now … “We have a friend,” he repeats. “Just – when I get this open, just run. Just follow me. Trust me.”

Blaine nods, heart pounding tightly in his throat, hands clammy and palms tingling. It's actually not like he has much of a choice at this point.

“Done,” Finn exclaims eventually, quietly, the note of triumph just noticeable in his voice.

Blaine abandons his lookout post to turn back to him, holding his breath as the door swings finally, silently open … he can't hold back the sigh of relief, he'd half expected it to creak and alert half the guards, this is almost too good to be true -

They slip through quietly, Finn going first, looking around carefully as he tries to orient himself in the dark. Blaine quietly pulls the gate shut behind them, grateful when once again, it only makes the faintest of noises.

“The good thing about working in the stables,” Finn says, “is that sometimes I got to leave the castle walls to move the horses. With plenty of guards, naturally, but still -” he looks around for a while longer, probably figuring out the best escape route.

Blaine … just stands there, back pressed against the cold wall behind him, and doesn't know what to think.

He's outside the walls. For the first time since he was brought here. Flat, grassy ground is stretching out before them, gray in the dark of night, but still open. A few yards away, the forest begins, and he knows the ground must be falling away there, sloping downwards toward the valley and the village situated in it. If they can cross the open space and get into the forest without being seen...

“This way,” Finn finally decides, pointing a finger a little to the left of them, toward the edge of the forest. “We go in there, the stream is just a little further down, and then we find the clearing. That's where he'll be -”

“Who?” Blaine wants to know, but Finn squints up at the castle walls, hesitates.

“We have to go now,” he says hurriedly, “or miss our window. Come on!”

And with that he's sprinting away across the wide open field stretching between them and safety, and Blaine hesitates for the fraction of a second before he pushes himself off the wall, takes off at a run after Finn's huge, slightly hunched over frame, clearly visible even in the black of night.

His body isn't used to running anymore and it makes his thighs burn and his lungs hurt, but he's used to pushing himself and forces his legs into a faster sprint as the edge of the forest draws nearer, slowly, so slowly.

The yards between them and safety keep stretching, it's further away than it had looked from the gate, and Finn is a good way ahead now with his legs being so much longer...

The sound of cries and yells and then a loud, bellowing signal from a horn comes as a shock after they've almost made it, almost reached the edge of the forest, and Blaine pants, heart hammering painfully against his ribs and every muscle protesting as he ducks lower and makes his legs push him forward harder, can't give up now, not now not now...

Finn disappears between the trees and Blaine can already hear dogs barking in the background, but just a little further and he'll be in the darkness of the woods...

His legs give out and his breath hitches, feeling like he was shoved, before he ever feels the pain, sharp like a needle through his shoulder at first and then radiating outwards until the edges of his vision go black.

_Oh_ , he thinks, as his knees hit the ground and he sways drunkenly back and forth, sees Finn's shape reappear between the trees, and then he falls forwards as everything just sort of fades out and goes dark.

**

The things he's aware of are crystal clear and veiled in a dream-like fog all at the same time; consciousness comes and goes and flickers between exhaustion, pain, fear and confusion. It feels like a fever dream, he doesn't know what's real and what's illusion, is aware of Finn hauling him up and saying something and then his head is dangling upside down and he's being jogged and jostled and he can't move his legs and it all goes black again.

**

He's aware of the world tilting again, hands, a small flickering light – a lantern? – Finn's voice saying something, it sounds urgent; what's wrong? And a second voice, unfamiliar, a threat? He forces his heavy lids to open, blinks around disorientedly, and there's a face staring down at him that he's never seen before, but Finn is there too so it's probably okay and even if it's not he's in no state to fight them, and then Finn says “Elliot -” And then he's being lifted up again and the unbearable pain that shoots through his side makes his eyes fall shut again as the world goes away once more.

**

There's rumbling, shaking, the earth is moving, something hard and rough under his back. He feels too hot, no, too cold, he wants to open his eyes but can't remember how, and his legs won't move, he can't feel his arms … scared, he tries to struggle, to hold onto the shreds of memory that flash through his mind … the castle, the gate, _running_ , the forest, pain, has he made it into the forest? Where's Finn? Were they captured? Why can't he feel his arms? Something cool touches his forehead and it feels good and the rumbling and shaking continues as he slowly drifts away again.

**

He loses all sense of time, all sense of direction, of up and down and sideways and the edges of his body. It's spinning blurriness, his mind wading sluggishly through a thick and murky fog every time he surfaces briefly from the deep and dark water that he seems to have sunken into.

It's dark, at first, and then there's light and he doesn't understand it, five minutes ago it was night? But the brightness hurts his eyes so he keeps them closed, loses himself again.

His head is being lifted and then there's water flooding his mouth and he doesn't understand, but he's dreamed of drowning so he coughs and sputters and the pain that shoots through him is the last thing he knows before darkness takes him once more.

When he blinks his eyes open again there's a face he knows swimming in his vision, Finn, that's Finn, and he's saying words. Blaine furrows his brow, concentrates very hard, and after a while he can make it out just vaguely: “drink,” and “please.” His head is being lifted again and this time he remembers what to do when cool liquid washes over his tongue. He swallows, even though it hurts his throat and takes more effort than he thinks is right – this is supposed to be easy, right? But the coldness does feel good and he's almost sorry when it finally goes away, but then his head is lowered back down and that's good too and he feels his muscles relax as the rumbling starts up again.

He's aware of voices, more voices than there were before, and the shaking has stopped. It's colder than it was, and then something's pulling at him and trying to move him and he makes a low noise of protest – it hurts and he's tired, so tired, and can't they just let him sleep he's not ready for the day to begin and he knows the overseer will beat him if he doesn't get up but he can't even open his eyes he's so tired so tired so tired and

his body is being bent and tugged at and lifted and the loss of ground under his back makes his stomach turn and he's gonna fall he's gonna fall he doesn't know what's happening everything is the wrong way around and

the voices sound strangely urgent and he's still being bounced around and then a flare of pain and everything is gone.

**

He wakes up again, and it's … quieter. There is no shaking, no rumbling. He's resting on something soft. Everything is warmer. There are no hurried voices, no rushing or rumbling, no one is pushing or prodding or moving him.

He still can't really feel his arms or legs but this time he's not worried, he's just calm, he still feels hazy but this time it feels almost comfortable. There's no strength in his body or his heart to feel fear, instead there's a peaceful sort of sweet exhaustion like the gentle pull of sleep ebbing soothingly through every corner of his being and he's content to let it pull him under again.

In a sudden burst of spiking curiosity, he blinks his eyes open against the soft light of the room and it's mostly blurry, but there's a face looking down at him, sort of shapeless, but … those eyes. He knows those eyes, clear blue and friendly and so beautiful … A feeling of serenity sweeps from his core to the very edges of his consciousness and he thinks if he could smile, he would. He can't remember everything but he knows he loves those eyes and they love him and if they're here it means he can let go, he can sleep, he's safe now and nothing can hurt him ever again.

**

The first thing he becomes aware of, _really_ aware after what feels like a long time floating as an immaterial entity in an infinite shapeless darkness, is the smooth softness of the sheets under his hands. Other sensations come to him slowly: warmth, a heaviness in his limbs, the faint smell of a wood-burning fire.

It doesn't make sense, but he's still a bit drowsy, and his mind needs a while to fully catch up. When it does, he blinks his eyes open, slowly, carefully, squinting against the light that's soft but seems far too bright after all that time he's spent without it.

He's … in a room. Bigger than his cell. Lighter. Cleaner. The walls are white and so are the sheets that cover him, there's a window with a view of an apple tree and the quality of the light makes one word flash in his brain: afternoon.

It's unfamiliar, all of it, he has no idea where he is or why he's feeling so drowsy and exhausted when he's apparently just woken up, he tries lifting an arm and hears … a gasp, from the other side of the bed.

With considerable effort, he turns his head, and what he sees makes his heart stop for a second and then _leap_ almost painfully before it starts pounding away in his chest; it can't be, it can't be, how is this possible -

But that's Kurt jumping up from the chair he'd been sitting in to fall to his knees next to Blaine's bed, those are Kurt's hands reaching for Blaine's face, one hand cupping his cheek and Blaine wants to close his eyes at the gentle touch but he can't look away. His face, oh gods, he looks tired and pale and like the most beautiful sight Blaine has ever seen in his life, he loves this face more than anything in the world, but, but...

“Blaine,” Kurt whispers, and the relief in just that one word cuts straight to Blaine's heart as it remembers, suddenly, oh right. This is what it feels like to be loved.

“You're dead,” he says, or tries to say, it comes out as no more than a dry rasping sound and feels like he's just swallowed a handful of rusty nails.

Kurt's thumb caresses the skin under his right eye, his other hand finding Blaine's, gripping on tightly. “No,” he says, shakes his head. “No, I'm not, and I'm so sorry, I know what you must have thought, but I'm here, it was the only way, the only way, I'm so sorry Blaine, I'm so, so sorry -”

Blaine does his best to squeeze his hand back even though he really doesn't feel he has the strength to spare right now, and his eyes burn as his body tries to cry. “I lost you,” he says and speaking hurts, and Kurt keeps shaking his head, keeps touching him, his face, his hand.

“I'm here,” he assures him, “I'm here, Blaine, I'm here, I'm okay, I'm so sorry, I'm here, and so are you. You're okay, you're gonna be okay -”

All he can do is look at him and try to understand, it doesn't make sense. He'd grieved for him, he'd lost him, he'd been alone, but here he is, and he says he's okay, and he's touching him and and...

Kurt bends over him, lowers his face to Blaine's, and gently, lovingly, carefully presses a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

And the scent of him the warmth from his body the familiarity of his closeness … Blaine's next breath shudders out of him almost painfully as his chest goes tight and the emotion swelling inside him fills him up and spills over and finally makes the tears well up in his eyes – it's more than relief, more than the sunrise after an eternal night, it's … everything.

Kurt is here.

He cries and wishes he weren't too weak to hug him and cling to him, but Kurt wraps his own arms around him as well as he can with Blaine lying down on a bed and makes no move to go anywhere.

Everything's going to be okay.


	5. Chapter 5

Finn has to bring him his dinner on a tray because even though Kurt has been invited many times to sit down for meals in the big tent, he has absolutely no intention of leaving Blaine alone for even a second unless he absolutely has to.

Tonight, it's soup, again, but it's not as thin as the stuff they used to get at the castle.

He eats quietly, smiling at Finn who takes a seat on the second chair in the room, at the foot of Blaine's bed, to keep him company. Blaine has been drifting in and out of consciousness since the first time he woke up yesterday and recognized Kurt. And Kurt knows that Finn, who survived their escape relatively unharmed, has been helping out around the refugee camp taking care of simple tasks that needed to be done, so he appreciates it all the more, him taking the time to sit with them in the evening.

“How is he?” Finn asks, nodding towards Blaine's still form under the covers.

Kurt shrugs. “Better. The doctor says he just needs to sleep it off now that the fever is gone. He's lucky the arrow wasn't poisoned. And that the wound didn't get infected. I guess I have you and Elliott to thank for that. For, you know. Taking care of him.”

Finn smiles his crooked little embarrassed smile. “It was mostly Elliott,” he admits. “I was pretty useless.”

“You were escaping from almost seven years of slavery,” Kurt reminds him. “You're allowed to be _tired_.”

“So, he'll be okay to travel soon?” Finn wants to know.

Kurt nods. He knows that, as much as Finn has already made a place for himself among the refugees, he's impatient to leave now. Kurt understands – he hasn't left the camp since he arrived, but according to Elliott his home village still exists and his father is alive and all those endless weeks they had plotted Finn and Blaine's rescue, Kurt had looked across the hills from time to time wishing he could just leave. He wants to see his dad again, it's been _years_ , he wants to go _home_. But he couldn't leave without his brother and his Blaine, he'd needed to see this through to the end.

“Soon,” he tells Finn. “I want to go home too. You know I do.”

“Kurt?” a faint voice says from the direction of the bed, and Kurt puts his bowl down so quickly that some of the soup sloshes over the side, and leans forward to smile down at Blaine.

“Hi.”

Blaine smiles back at him, slowly and sweetly, the best sign that his strength is gradually returning. “What time is it?”

Kurt laughs softly. “Almost night. You can go right back to sleep if you want.”

“Actually,” Blaine lifts his arm, the one that isn't in a sling, stretches himself out as much as his sore muscles allow. “I'm not all that tired anymore.”

“You've slept for three days,” Kurt tells him, trying to sound amused even though he can still feel the phantom fear chilling his insides, Blaine so still and unmoving and feverishly hot and too pale, lost and small-looking between the white sheets...

Blaine's eyes widen. “Since the last time I woke up?”

Kurt shakes his head, grinning. “No, before yesterday. You've woken up a few times since then. You've only been asleep for about two hours this time.”

“Oh.” Blaine looks pleased. “I was worried.”

“Tell me about it,” Kurt murmurs, and Blaine's gaze softens as he reaches for his hand.

“I'm sorry.”

“You have absolutely no reason to be sorry for anything,” Kurt assures him. “You didn't get shot in the back on purpose.”

Blaine opens his mouth, closes it again, looks confusedly up at Kurt with his eyebrows drawn together tightly in a look of concentration. “Wait. I got shot in the back?”

“About a week ago,” Finn falls in, and Blaine's eyes flicker over to him, flash happily as he recognizes him.

“Finn!” he exclaims, then seems to think very hard. “You helped me! You and … there was someone else, wasn't there?”

“Elliott,” Finn says.

“An old friend,” Kurt explains.

Blaine sighs, shakes his head helplessly. “I'm not sure I know what happened. We were escaping, and now we're here, and,” he looks up at Kurt, smiles, “you're here even though you were dead, and – could someone just please fill me in on all the rest?”

Kurt hesitates. “Are you – sure you're strong enough for that yet?”

Blaine lets out a short little laugh that warms Kurt's heart. “The way I see it, now is the perfect time. I'm awake, I can't go anywhere, and you're both here, so?”

Kurt exchanges a look with Finn, tries to make up his mind, but yes, okay, now is as good a time as any.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. So. I didn't die.”

Blaine squeezes his fingers. “Yeah. I got that.” He struggles a bit trying to sit up, falls back with a frustrated sigh. “Help me?”

Kurt uses the time it takes him to help Blaine sit up against the headboard, a pillow comfortably supporting his back, to calm his breathing; he doesn't like the idea of reliving it all, but Blaine has a right to know.

“Thanks,” Blaine says, as Kurt finally has him settled, immediately reaches for his hand again. “Can I just ask – where exactly are we?”

Kurt threads their fingers together, lifts his other hand to brush a stray curl from Blaine's sweaty forehead. “The kingdom of Lima. Just behind the borders. This is – it's a hospital. There's a whole camp full of people outside – people like us. Um. Refugees.”

Blaine blinks at him, hesitates a moment. “We're safe here?”

Kurt nods, and the word still sounds unbelievable even to his own ears, but … “Yes,” he says, smiles. “We're safe here, Blaine. We're safe.”

“Oh.” Blaine exhales, holds Kurt's hand a little tighter. “That's good.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So, what happened?”

With Blaine taken care of and Finn leaning back in his chair to hear the full recount of a story he's only heard snippets of before too, Kurt takes a last deep breath and begins.

“I can tell you the story up to the part where Elliott gets involved. And then, I think, Finn is the better person to tell you the rest. But, okay. I assume that no one told you what had happened when I disappeared?”

Blaine shakes his head. “Finn told me eventually that you'd been thrown in the dungeons and been killed. But only days later.”

Kurt nods. “I _was_ thrown in the dungeons. I don't know why to this day – they said they saw me stealing from the kitchens, but that's an outright lie. I would never have taken anything anyone would miss.”

“Your salve?” Blaine asks. He'd always worried about what Kurt had to do to get it.

“No.” Kurt smiles. “One of the paid cooks gave me that. She made it herself. I don't know exactly what's in it. Camphor oil, and something else, she made it at home and gave it to some of us. I didn't question it at the time, she was always nice to me. Now I know why she – no. I'm getting ahead of myself.”

He sighs, ordering his thoughts for a minute. “Anyway,” he continues. “They locked me in a cell and left me there. I don't know for how long, it was dark, and cold, easy to lose track of time in a place like that. When they came for me again it was only to take me to a different cell, this one with three people already in it; I knew some of them.” He sighs, rubs a hand across his face. “I knew they were doing it to some of us sometimes as a form of punishment, a few days in a cold, damp cell with no food. I have no idea if that was what they had in mind for me too, or if they were meaning to execute me, but in the end, it didn't matter.”

Blaine watches him steadily and with sympathy in his eyes, thumb caressing the back of Kurt's hand, and it gives him the strength he needs to continue.

“There was this one guy. We didn't get along, never have, he, he used to … beat me up sometimes, I -” he breathes shakily, fights down the embarrassment burning hotly inside. He's not a victim, he's never wanted to be a victim, and yet telling this story does nothing but highlight his constant helplessness back at the castle. “He was convinced he was in that cell because of me. And the second day, I don't know where he got it, maybe one of the guards … I don't know. He had a knife.”

Blaine gasps, and Kurt shoots him a half-meant, reassuring smile, it's over now. They're just words now. “He stabbed me.”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers, and he sounds horrified, shocked, scared even in retrospect.

Kurt shakes his head, for a moment reclaims his hand to lift up his shirt, revealing his left side where a new, rough scar sits right under his ribcage. “The doctors here -” he grimaces. “They say an inch higher and he would have punctured my lungs. I guess I was lucky.”

Blaine's fingers reach out, barely brushing over the jagged white ridge of skin, then he flattens his hand over it, his rough, warm hand soothing palm steady on Kurt's healed skin. He doesn't say anything, just looks up to meet his eyes, and Kurt feels himself breathe easier.

He lets the shirt drop over his own skin and Blaine's hand, puts his own hand on top of Blaine's, over the fabric of his shirt, holding him in place right there so he can feel him breathe. He thinks Blaine needs it as much as he does.

“It's okay,” he says. “I was lucky.”

“You're alive,” Blaine says.

Kurt hesitates, shakes his head. “Yes, but that's not what I mean. I was lucky to get stabbed. No,” he adds quickly upon seeing the shocked look on Blaine's face. “I just mean, if I hadn't, they wouldn't have been able to get me out.”

Blaine squints his eyes a him. “Who's they?”

“Friends,” Kurt answers. “An organization. A small one, but always growing. I only learned of their existence after I was injured, they operate in secret. If I had known, I might have tried to get them to help us sooner … Anyway. Their motivation is the same as that of the people who built this hospital near the border and run the camp that's spread around it. Only they have to be way more careful because they work from inside the country; if they'd be caught they'd be hanged.”

“They help … people like us?” Blaine clarifies.

“Yes.” Kurt presses his hand closer for a second, then continues. “They have people in a number of places by now, usually just one or two, there aren't many of them yet. At the Count's castle, it was a guard. And … the cook.” He smiles. “I didn't have much of a chance to talk to any of them. But I met the cook down in the village one last time; she hides escaped slaves in her basement. I stayed there for two days until she was content I wouldn't bleed to death if she let me go.”

“How did they get you out of the castle?” Blaine asks.

“Ah, yes.” Kurt nods. “That's why getting stabbed was a good thing – the only way to get out is dead.”

“But you weren't dead.”

“No,” he agrees, “but I had been stabbed in front of three other prisoners and two guards. I lost consciousness. In front of witnesses. And it was our friendly helper guard who carried me off into a secluded cell and then went back out to tell the others I was dead. No one has much interest in dead slaves.” He grins bitterly. “They have even less interest in taking them down to the crematorium outside the village. Our guard volunteered. We left that same night. I don't remember much of it,” he admits, “I was pretty out of it. And being wrapped up in damp blankets and bounced around on the back of an open horse-drawn wagon isn't the most comfortable way to travel, especially when you're already wounded. But it had to look convincing. I think I passed out after a while. I do remember being carried into the cook's cellar and staying there.”

“Did they get you to the border safely?” Blaine wants to know.

Kurt sighs, shakes his head. “They don't have the resources. They urged me to stay until I felt better, but I knew I had to leave as soon as possible. I wanted out from under the shadow of the castle, and I knew I had to find a way to get you out too. As soon as possible.” He squeezes Blaine's hand through his shirt, feels the pain of the wound as if it was fresh. “I never wanted to leave you there on your own!”

“It wasn't your fault,” Blaine says, smiles reassuringly. “I'm just glad you're alive and that we're both here now.”

“I love you,” Kurt says, because it's the only answer that seems good enough and also because he does and he's so happy to have him back.

“I love you too.”

He takes a moment to just look at him before he makes himself tell the rest of his story. “There isn't much more to say, actually,” he says. “They gave me new clothes so I didn't have to travel in slave robes; I'd have been caught again within minutes. After all those days in the dungeons and then the cook's house, my beard had grown considerably and hid my face. I was unrecognizable. I still mostly traveled by night. On foot, always a good few yards to the side of the road. It took me over a week, but I eventually made it to the border. I came across in the dark, and found this camp, and they took me in. They took care of me while my wound healed. I have been here ever since.”

Blaine is quiet for a moment, then smiles, slowly, removes his hand from under Kurt's shirt to tug at his arm until Kurt gets the message and leans down to rest his forehead against Blaine's. “I'll be forever grateful for all the people who helped you,” Blaine whispers. “For all the people who helped make you safe. Kurt, I'm so glad you're alive.”

“We both have a lot to be grateful for,” Kurt reminds him. “I am also grateful that once I arrived here, I ran into an old childhood friend, who, after I had shaved and taken a bath, recognized me. And offered to help in any way he could.”

“Elliott?” Blaine says, remembering the name.

Kurt nods, sitting up straight again and taking Blaine's hand back in his. “He works for the camp. Officially, he's a trader. Business often takes him into Westerville, and he has smuggled more than a dozen people out in his wagon so far. When I told him who I had left behind in Count Schuester's castle, he immediately came up with a plan to save you. Both of you.”

Blaine frowns. “He was at the castle on business?”

“He went under the pretense of selling linens. But -” he looks up, shoots a quick smile in Finn's direction. “There is one place everyone come through who arrives by carriage or horseback.”

Blaine's face lights up in understanding. “The stables!”

“Yes.” Kurt laughs. “And from here, I think I'll let Finn take over, since I wasn't actually there for that part.”

Finn shrugs, fidgeting a little in his seat with the attention suddenly fixed on him. “He just came in one day,” he says. “I hadn't seen him in years, naturally, and he was always more Kurt's friend than mine, but he recognized me and told me he had a message, and just handed me a metal file.” He grins. “I didn't really know what I was supposed to do with it, but then he told me to figure out the patrol rounds on the outer wall and to go out the north gate five days later at night and come to the clearing behind the stream. I knew the place, of course, since I had been in the woods before.”

“Which I told him,” Kurt throws in.

Finn nods.

Blaine's eyes dart between the two as something occurs to him. “Wait,” he says to Finn. “Did you know he was alive and didn't tell me?”

Finn's face falls. “No, I didn't know. I'd have told you if I knew. I thought – I don't know what I thought. Elliott said he had a message from my brother and that I should meet him in the clearing and bring you. That was all. I assumed – Kurt and I had always talked about escape plans, and after he met you they were all adjusted to include you, and I just thought – I thought maybe he'd managed to get a message out to someone before he died.”

“Oh,” Blaine says. “Yes. I see.”

“Anyway,” Finn sighs. “You know the rest. Well. I assume you do. You were unconscious for most of it -”

“I remember running,” Blaine says. “After we made it through the gate. We ran, and then …?”

Finn grimaces. “They noticed we were gone. Probably passed the gate on their rounds and noticed the broken bolt. Anyway, they started pursuing us, and you got an arrow in the back.”

“I think -” Blaine scrunches up his face, thinks hard. “I do think I remember that.”

“I had to carry you to the meeting point,” Finn continues. “Elliott was waiting there with his horse and wagon, as promised, and we managed a really narrow escape – if the guards had had the time to get their horses, we would never have made it.”

“I don't remember anything about fleeing in a wagon of any kind,” Blaine admits.

“No, I didn't think you would,” Finn tells him. “It took us two and a half days to reach the border and we could barely even get you to drink anything the entire time. Elliott was really worried you wouldn't make it, at one point.”

“But I did,” Blaine says, and he isn't sure what he feels – apparently he almost died and didn't even know it.

“You did,” Kurt says, and leans down to kiss his forehead. “You made it! You're here. The doctors spent a long time locked up with you, and when they would finally let me see you, you were so pale and unresponsive and wouldn't even wake up. I was so scared,” he adds in a small voice.

“I'm okay now,” Blaine promises.

“We couldn't get the arrow out of you by ourselves,” Finn tells him. “So we had to just kind of snap it off and just leave it in there for a few days. The doctors here had to cut it out of you. There'll be a scar, I'm afraid.”

Blaine shrugs, but that still hurts and he winces a little. “I haven't actually looked at my own back in a while but I can guarantee you it won't be the only one.”

Kurt lifts Blaine's hand to his lips at that, softly kisses his knuckles. Blaine smiles at him.

“Once you're well enough to travel,” Kurt says, “we can go home to my village. Elliott assures me it's still there, and still as quiet and boring as it was when I was a child, before the war came. We can stay there. Make sure you don't have to add any more scars to those you have ever again. My family will be glad to take you in, I'm sure of it.” He blushes, lowers his eyes. “If you want to come with me, that is. You don't have to.”

Blaine waits until Kurt meets his eyes again, then smiles. “I just got you back,” he says. “I'll go anywhere with you. Wherever you want to go.”

“We can totally find your family too if you want,” Finn offers, a bit too enthusiastically.

Blaine's face clouds over with a pain Kurt hasn't seen there before. “I doubt it,” he says. “But thank you.”

Kurt holds his hand and watches him and decides to ask him about this later. For now, Blaine should get a little more rest. He's still weak.

Finn leaves them after a few more minutes, taking Kurt's bowl and spoon with him and promising to check in on them again the next morning.

It doesn't take long for Blaine to fall asleep, fingers linked with Kurt's tightly.

Kurt stays in his chair but rests his head on the pillow next to Blaine's, eyes tracing the elegant bow of his eyelashes, the ridiculous shape of his brows, the curve of his cheek, stubbly and still too pale underneath.

They're safe. They're together.

All the rest, they'll figure out with time.

For now, they have made it.

**

They stay at the camp for another eleven days until Kurt is convinced that Blaine is well enough to travel. Blaine is glad by then to finally get on the road – while he appreciates the kindness of the doctors and helpers at the camp, he just kind of longs for a quieter place, with fewer people and maybe a chance to walk a bit more without being observed all the time.

With Kurt and occasionally Finn and Elliott's help, he has taken several slow walks around the camp the past few days to get his legs moving again, get some strength back into his muscles to prepare for the journey ahead, but also because he'd started being bored and restless and not even Kurt had managed to convince him to rest more.

It's a four-day trip by horse or carriage to Kurt and Finn's village, and they accept the basket of provisions from the camp with a lot of thanks and hugs and suddenly Blaine finds it difficult to say goodbye – these people have saved his life. So many people were involved in saving his life. One of these days, he knows, he'll have to find a way to repay all of them for the infinite kindness they have bestowed upon him.

For now, he watches with a smile as one of the doctors hands Kurt a bag full of fresh and tightly wrapped bandages, explaining to him how to clean them in boiling water if needed and then patiently testing Kurt's knowledge about how to properly dress Blaine's still healing wound, and the exercises he should make him do once there is no danger of him tearing the skin anymore.

Kurt's eyes meet his for a brief moment and they smile at each other, and Blaine knows he's in excellent hands. He's not worried.

With their goodbyes and Thank Yous finally done, they climb onto Elliott's wagon, because Kurt's old childhood friend had insisted they let him be the one to take them home, and none of them had felt like arguing. Blaine finds he trusts Elliott and likes him a lot; he's grateful for a few more days in the company of what he already knows will be a life-long friend to him too.

Finn sits on the box in front next to Elliott while Kurt and Blaine climb onto the back, sit side by side on the cushions someone had dug up for them to make them more comfortable while the wagon bounced its way down the bumpy country roads.

Blaine waits until the camp is out of sight before turning his head toward Kurt, linking their fingers together and smiling. “Are you happy to be going home?”

Kurt nods, bites his lip. “Yes,” he says, a small, happy grin on his face. “I miss my dad,” he admits. “It's been years and I just … I miss him.”

“I'm glad you'll get to see him again.” Blaine holds his hand tighter, then frowns a little, worried. “I just hope – I mean – will he be okay? With – this? Us?”

Kurt looks at him. “Why wouldn't he be?”

Blaine shrugs. “Not everyone is.”

“You've been in Westerville too long.” Kurt nudges their shoulders together playfully. “Their rules are not our rules! It's okay here in Lima. No one will mind. I can love you, here. As openly as I want. My dad will be happy for us.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, takes a deep breath. He had asked himself how to bring this up. Now seems as good a time as any, there's never going to be a perfect time. “I'm not from Lima.”

Kurt's eyes widen, then he laughs. “What do you mean, you're not from Lima?”

Blaine lowers his eyes, not scared, but … apprehensive. “I'm a citizen of the kingdom of Westerville. By birth. I'm a foreigner in this country.”

Kurt pauses. “You were a slave,” he says. “I'm sorry, I just assumed -”

“The kingdom enslaves its own people too if they're scum in the king's eyes,” Blaine reminds him. “National identity doesn't make you a person.”

“No, I know.” Kurt swallows heavily. “I just never thought about it. It's not important either way. You're welcome here. Elliott tells me that Lima has been taking in refugees from Westerville since the war ended, of course you're welcome here.” His eyes widen. “Were you – I'm sorry, you don't have to talk about it. But … was it because you're gay?”

“Oh.” Blaine laughs. “No, it was before I even knew that much about myself.” He sighs, looks into Kurt's eyes, and thinks, to hell with it all. Kurt deserves the whole story, even if it hurts him to tell it, even if he has never told it to anyone before. “I can tell you what happened to me.”

Kurt squeezes his fingers in a comforting manner. “Only if you want to.”

“I want to,” he decides, and finds he means it. “It's not that long of a story anyway.” He shakes his head, the old memories buried so deep inside cutting sharply into his soul even now as he recalls them. “I was eleven,” he says. “It was a few years into the war. The king was getting desperate and drafting everyone into service who was physically capable of holding a sword or an axe -”

Kurt gasps, shifting closer to him as if to shield him. “You were a child soldier?”

Blaine nods, fights down the tears that want to rise in his throat as he remembers, remembers … everything. “Both my parents were already fighting in the war,” he says. “And my brother too. I was living with my grandmother who was too old to be of any use to anyone. When they – when they drafted me she cried, but she had to let me go, she didn't have a choice. But she sent word to my parents.”

“What happened?” Kurt asks, quietly, as if he's dreading the answer.

Blaine shrugs. “I completed my training, which only took two weeks because there was no time for anything and it was horrible. Then they sent me into battle.” He shudders at the memory. “I remember – I remember too much of that day. It's … there was so much blood -” he shivers again, feels like he'll throw up, but Kurt wraps him up in his arms and hold him and waits patiently and eventually the nausea subsides.

“You don't have to tell me any more,” Kurt says.

But Blaine shakes his head. “You don't know what happened yet,” he insists.

Kurt kisses his temple and waits.

“I don't know why or how I survived,” Blaine says. “A lot of us didn't. My best friend -” he can't stop the tears running down his cheeks anymore. “I saw him when they made me help carry off the wounded, he was, he – there was no point carrying him anywhere anymore.” He closes his eyes, breathes. “My brother came for me that night,” he says. “My parents were high-ranking officers and couldn't leave their posts, but they wanted me safe all the same. So they sent word to him and he found out where we were stationed. He got me out that night. We ran away.”

“I guess you didn't get all that far?” Kurt asks, shifting a little so he can settle Blaine against his chest more comfortably and Blaine is grateful for it.

“We were captured a day later,” Blaine says. “I don't know what they did to my brother. I never saw him again. But they don't treat deserters kindly. I can only hope he was sold as a slave the same way I was, because then he might still be alive today. I was sold as a slave to work in the stables at a mansion near my old home town. A year later, I was resold to another mansion, another master, to serve in the kitchens at his house. That's where I was until they sold me to the Count. And you know the rest.”

Kurt keeps him close, rubs his arm soothingly, is quiet for a long while. “I'm sorry, Blaine,” he says eventually. “I'm so sorry that you had to go through all of that. And I'll do everything within my power to keep you safe from now on.”

Blaine lifts his head, meets his eyes, attempts a smile through the tears and the pounding ache in his heart, the love and loss he feels for a family he hasn't seen in so long and will probably not see again for as long as he lives. “And I'll do the same for you,” he promises. “Always.”

Kurt is his family now. He is not alone.

**

They make camp near a little stream by the side of the road that night, light a fire and share part of the provisions the kind people at the camp have given them.

And then Kurt gets their blankets from the back of the wagon, and Blaine doesn't fight it, doesn't argue when Kurt only makes one bed for them both, just curls around him as soon as they lie down, one ear to his chest so he can hear his heartbeat.

If he's allowed to go to sleep like this every night from now on, his life will be more wonderful than he ever thought he deserves.

They're up early the next morning and back on the road; Elliott is confident that they can reach the village in three days time around lunchtime.

Nothing of significance happens as they travel through the green, hilly countryside, it doesn't even rain. Apparently, their luck has finally changed for the better and Blaine spends long, lazy days on the back of the wagon, not talking much at all, head resting on Kurt's shoulder while Kurt holds his hand, presses tender kisses into his curls every now and then.

It's the fourth day of their journey and late morning when Finn recognizes the first landmark. They must finally be nearing the village.

Blaine notices Kurt getting jittery next to him and he smiles and holds his shaking hands – he understands. Of course he does. Kurt is going to see his father again after years of separation. Blaine doesn't even know how he'd feel if it were his parents, or his brother whom he still misses so much every single day of his life.

They talk even less, during this last stage of their trip. Kurt keeps his lips tightly pressed together and jaw clenched, even Finn seems nervous since Elliott told him his mother was still alive and waiting for him. Blaine is still a bit tired and Elliott seems content to just sit and let them hang onto their own thoughts.

So Blaine startles when Kurt suddenly sits up straight next to him, gasping loudly.

“What is it?” Blaine asks, but Kurt is already pointing away to their left where the first houses of a village appear as the wagon rounds the gentle curve of a hill.

“Finn!” Kurt exclaims, bouncing a little where he sits and still stretching out a hand toward the houses. “Look!”

“I know,” Finn replies, sounding like he wants to laugh with happiness. “Home!”

Blaine watches and tries not to expect anything as the houses grow bigger, and more numerous, and then they're entering the village and making their way through narrow streets and past rows of small, two-story houses. Kurt is holding his hand tightly enough to hurt and seems to be buzzing out of his skin almost, and Blaine keeps close to him, trying to offer support in any way he possibly can.

And then they're approaching what must be the blacksmith's shop, and before the wagon has even rolled to a full stop the door is being flung open and a man runs out and straight for them.

Before Blaine knows what's happening, Kurt has yanked his hand free and is jumping off the still-moving wagon, the cry that escapes his throat somewhere between a word and a sob as he stumbles and then runs toward his father. Blaine watches as they meet and throw their arms around each other in a hug so tight it looks uncomfortable, smiles as Kurt's dad lifts his son of his feet and spins him around, catches sight, for a moment, of Kurt's face, eyes squeezed tightly shut against his father's shoulder, and Blaine can see that he's crying. But he knows that these are the good kind of tears.

He's happy that Kurt is happy.

Vaguely, he notices a woman running from the house a moment later and Finn hurrying toward her to greet her, but his attention stays on Kurt. Just the way it always does.

**

It's been years, and yet Kurt doesn't think his father has actually changed too much – he does look older, but then, so does Kurt. Mostly, he still looks just like his dad, and he still smells like his dad, and Kurt feels like a boy again as he's enveloped in another tight hug, and this is what it feels like to be safe. For the first time since he crossed the border, he feels himself fully relaxing; for the first time, he doesn't have to be the one having everything under control. For just a moment, he can be a kid again.

And then they both pull back at the same time, and Kurt smiles at his dad, blinks through his tears, and motions toward the wagon.

“Dad, there's someone I want you to meet!”

He turns around to see Blaine climbing down over the side, reaches out a hand for him. Blaine answers with a small, shy smile, carefully walking over to them and, with a suspicious look at Kurt's dad, slips his hand into Kurt's.

Kurt beams at him, at this brave, beautiful man that he loves, and tugs him closer to his side, looks back at his father. “This is Blaine. He'll be staying with us.”

Burt watches them closely for a while, curiosity and then understanding flashing over his face, and he smiles back. “It's nice to meet you, Blaine,” he says. “Elliott had already told me that there'd be an addition to your party. You're welcome to stay with us for as long as you like.”

Kurt watches Blaine nod quietly, feels him trembling slightly in this unfamiliar situation he can't make sense of, crowds closer to his side, silently reassuring him that it's okay, no one here will mind.

“Thank you,” Blaine says, eventually, and his voice is clear and unafraid and he even manages a smile.

Kurt's hand is sweaty and cold with nervous excitement, as is Blaine's, and still they keep their fingers firmly intertwined as they follow his dad into the house, closely followed by Finn and Carole who still have their arms linked and wide smiles on their faces.


	6. Chapter 6

Kurt finds that the old house hasn't changed that much at all – he may have been away for a long time, but he recognizes everything. The smell of it, the way the light filters through the windows that are facing the blacksmith's shop and are always a little grimy from the smoke and soot of the forge. The rooms are the same, and even some of the old furniture is still there.

His room is still there, as is Finn's. Not knowing whether they were alive or dead, their parents had boxed up most of their stuff to keep it safe, but never found a new purpose for their rooms; hadn't wanted to find one on the off-chance that one or both of them ever came back home.

Kurt sits on his old bed in his old room and looks around; he has changed so much since he last sat in this spot. He'd been little more than a kid. There had been a war going on, back then. People from his village had been becoming soldiers and leaving for battle and every now and then, they'd get refugees crossing their village and some of them staying behind.

Other than that, four days from the border it hadn't touched them too much, at first; there had been battles nearby on occasion and he'd seen smoke on the horizon and he'd started helping out more at the shop, because business had seriously picked up with everyone needing tools and weapons all of a sudden.

And then, after he had almost started to believe that this was all that war really was, they had come. Soldiers, dozens of them.

The village had not been defenseless; they'd been close enough to the border and the battlefields still to always keep a small guard. But most of their own men and women who were able to carry weapons had already been needed elsewhere, and, well, four days away from the border is still four days away from the border. They hadn't been defenseless, but they hadn't been prepared either.

The enemy soldiers, however, had been prepared. It hadn't taken them long to round up the people they wanted to take and just cart them off, and Kurt remembers the fear as if it were yesterday.

But now … he takes another look around the old familiar room, draws in a deep breath, meets Blaine's eyes across the small space between them. Blaine, who is sitting next to him on the narrow bed, looking overwhelmed and just sort of stunned after the sincerely heartfelt welcome from Kurt's family a few hours ago. And Kurt takes his hand in his, smiles.

Now, he's back. The war is over. They're safe.

“Are you sure it's all right for us to share a room?” Blaine asks tentatively, not for the first time that night.

Kurt squeezes his fingers, breathes out. “Yes. They don't mind. No one here does. It's fine,” he promises Blaine, and yet he feels his own heart beating faster at the thought of it.

He wants nothing more than to keep Blaine as close to himself as humanly possible, even, or especially, at night. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't fully grasp the enormity of it. Of being allowed this. It's difficult to believe that they won't get in trouble over this.

It doesn't make sense to be scared any longer, but it's not like he can just stop it either.

Almost to prove a point, he leans in to kiss Blaine, long and lingering, making himself not check the door first to make sure no one is there to see. It's _all right_. Blaine is hesitant at first, but then he kisses him back softly, his hand in Kurt's shaking just a little.

Everything is new now.

It's wonderful and full of possibility, and Kurt is happier than he's been in a very, very long time. But still, it's new. Unfamiliar. Not everything can just change over night.

**

Being with Kurt, living with Kurt's family – it's a lot, at first. The first few days are especially hard, but even as they start settling in, some things just stay … difficult.

Once the door to Kurt's room is closed behind them at night, Blaine usually feels better, even though the fact that he can't seem to shake a certain sense of mistrust around Kurt's family bothers him.

He knows, in his head, that he can trust these people. He knows they won't hurt him for speaking, or for looking at Kurt for a second too long, or even for taking his hand. He knows it, but sometimes, it's difficult to really and fully _understand_ it.

For years he's had to watch his every step, and he can't just stop now, can't just all of a sudden be himself. Whoever he even really is. He's not quite sure he really knows that anymore; the last time he's been allowed to be any version of his true self, he had been eleven. And even then life had been scary with his parents and his brother gone and only his old grandmother looking after him, with a war raging all around them.

Kurt is nervous and fluttery as well despite the fact that this is his family, and even Finn is quiet and pale and sometimes. They still hear him screaming at night whenever he wakes from a nightmare.

They all have nightmares.

They're safe now. That doesn't mean the past disappears just like that.

He tries to be all right. He tries so very hard, and he sees Kurt doing the same, and Finn too, but he is mostly still just focusing on Kurt a lot because he's why he's even here in the first place. They have a chance now, to actually be together for real. Blaine knows how lucky he is, and knows that he will do everything in his power to be what Kurt needs. Especially when Kurt is so obviously trying to do the same for him. But it's a struggle. They're both not all right, they're both trying to adjust, and sometimes it seems hopeless.

Maybe they are too damaged to start over. But Blaine doesn't want to believe that. Everything is better now. Eventually, they'll both be able to trust in that.

Blaine is jumpy, the first few weeks, never sure whether it is all right to sit down, always feeling like he's being too lazy, like he should do more to earn his keep at the house.

Burt and Carole both reassure him constantly that he's welcome in their home, that it's his home too now, that he should just focus on recovering and maybe gaining some weight. He's grateful. But he still feels useless and like a burden to them.

Kurt finds them things to do around the house; at first insists on Blaine resting a little more since his shoulder is still sore, but when he sees how uncomfortable Blaine is with sitting down, he gives him small tasks to do too and Blaine feels so much better for it.

Together, they sit in the tiny kitchen and peel potatoes for supper that night. Later, Blaine busies himself darning a few socks while Kurt mends a tear in his father's winter coat and then makes a few trips outside to get enough firewood for the next couple of days.

In the evening, they usually sit with the rest of the family, talking about their days, and, gradually, about the days they have missed in each other's lives. That part of the conversation is still largely carried by Burt and Carole who tell them of life in the village in the days during and after the war. About how, once it was over, they've rebuilt and repaired and tried to leave the dark times behind them with so many from their midst still missing. Blaine and Kurt and Finn sit and listen.

It's nice, having so many people who care about them all of a sudden. But, as he's slowly coming to learn, it will take some getting used to.

Luckily, they do have that time now.

**

One of the things that surprise him the most is how weird it is to sit down to supper together, all five of them around the kitchen table, eating together and talking and laughing. They're actually six of them today; Elliott who's still around has joined them.

At the castle, he'd had his meals sitting outside his Master's door, hurriedly chewing whatever he'd been given that day before he was being called back to his duties.

Now, he has a fixed place at the table, a chair that's his, and enough time to enjoy his food. He sits next to the man he loves and he is included in the conversation, and sometimes all of that is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Tonight, he feels mostly anxious. Which is something that just happens sometimes. He has no control over it, not really.

They've been here for two weeks and he knows these people by now; he likes them. And still he doesn't always know how to behave around them.

“So, you'll be going back to the camp next week?” Carole asks Elliott while piling potatoes onto Finn's plate.

Elliott nods. “And then back to Westerville. The work is never done.”

“You're being careful, right?” Burt asks, and this is another thing Blaine feels overwhelmed by – Elliott is not even a part of Burt's family, and yet he genuinely cares about his well-being.

Elliott nods. “Always. Besides, Kurt already made me promise to come back here as soon as I can for another visit.”

“We owe you our lives,” Kurt says quietly. “And you're my oldest friend. We still have so much to catch up on.”

“You still haven't met my husband either,” Elliott reminds him.

Blaine keeps his eyes on his own plate, but he listens closely as Elliott talks about the man he's married to – it still sounds unbelievable to him, that Elliott is actually married to another man.

He thinks about what it means for himself, for him and Kurt, that his and Kurt's love for each other is not a punishable offense in this country. More than that, if things go well and they stay together, could they, eventually, one day even get married too -?

He blushes furiously at the thought and lowers his head further so no one will see, afraid that they'd be able to guess at his thoughts. It sounds scandalous even in his own head.

“Are you all right?” Kurt asks him while everyone else is distracted talking about travel in winter and the state of the main road.

Blaine looks up at him and sometimes Kurt just overwhelms him; he's the most beautiful person Blaine has ever seen and, gods, he loves him. And he knows Kurt loves him back; in the unending turmoil of his mind that's the one thing he's certain of. Kurt loves him. Sometimes, the gratitude and happiness is almost enough to choke him.

“I'm fine,” he says. “Just … thinking.”

Kurt smiles at him, eyes flickering around the table out of habit – it may take them a long while to stop checking for threats before showing each other any kind of affection. Then he shifts ever so slightly in his chair, until his knee bumps Blaine's. And that's how they keep sitting during the rest of the meal, knees pressed together under the table. Blaine even joins in the conversation eventually, as does Kurt.

They stay at the table even when most of the food is gone; there's still wine left and Finn is still busy picking apart a piece of bread on his plate.

Burt tells them about the winter two years ago when it had been so cold the door to the shop had been frozen shut and he'd had to thaw the lock before he could go to work that day.

“That winter!” Carole falls in. “I thought it would never end. We went through so much firewood, I was afraid it wouldn't last until spring.”

“It nearly didn't,” Burt reminds her. “But we were still lucky, the villages up north had it even worse from what I've heard -”

Blaine feels more confident, more relaxed now that he's eaten, now that he's settled into the gentle cacophony of their voices. And he lets his eyes wander around the table, sees Finn leaning back in his chair and still eating his bread, Elliott swirling the contents of his wine glass as he listens to Burt talking, Burt and Carole smiling at each other so openly, exchanging these small yet meaningful touches as they interrupt each other and talk over each other and laugh.

And, Blaine thinks, they _are_ safe here. They are accepted. They're _fine_.

He takes a deep breath, and with his heart hammering against his ribs, reaches out under the table to nudge Kurt's hand with his own, resting his fingers gently against Kurt's.

For a moment, the world stops as he feels Kurt pause and tense up next to him. Blaine looks straight ahead, doesn't even breathe, sits and waits with his hand touching Kurt's, out of sight under the table.

And then Kurt's hand moves, his palm sliding against Blaine's, their fingers folding together tightly. Kurt clutches his hand in a firm grip, holding on, resting their joined hands on his warm thigh.

Blaine resumes breathing. He can't shake the nervousness and the residual fear of being seen, but he wants to hold Kurt's hand. He _loves_ him. And, really, it's fine. No one here would mind even if they could see it.

He risks a look at Kurt, almost loses his breath again at the stunning beauty of this man who owns his heart, smiles gently as Kurt takes the moment to glance at him too and their eyes meet.

Blushing, they look away again. This feels like such a huge thing. It's shocking to be allowed this. And he could see it on Kurt's face too, the blush on his cheeks, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the very small, very happily stunned smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

They don't let go of each other's hands for the rest of the conversation, not until Burt and Carole push back their chairs, ready to finally start clearing the table.

Blaine watches as Burt kisses Carole's cheek before getting up off his chair, and blushes darker. One day, he hopes, he'll be able to kiss Kurt while everyone watches. Not yet. But it's nice to know that in theory, he could.

**

Kurt doesn't know how long it will take him to get used to going to sleep in a real bed again, and sitting down with family over breakfast, and getting to put up his feet in the evening and stare into the fire and not feel afraid of anything.

They have been back in his village for two months now, and it still feels strange to him, sometimes, almost unreal. Sometimes, he can't believe it's not a dream. Sometimes, he still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming, sweating, heart running too fast as he pulls himself out of yet another bad dream. But Blaine is always right there next to him to take him into his arms and whisper to him and kiss him, to run his fingers through his sweaty hair and calm him until he can go back to sleep. He doesn't know what he'd do without Blaine.

And he knows Blaine is having a much harder time, adjusting to all of this. He knows Blaine is glad, so glad to be out of the castle, knows he likes the peace and quiet of their tiny village that they're slowly making their home.

But even more often than Kurt he wakes up screaming and shaking, sometimes twice in one night, and it breaks Kurt's heart that all he can do is hold him and speak to him and let him cry against his chest until his body stops shivering and he can go back to sleep.

Back in the castle, he could ease the pain after a beating. He could even help get Blaine out of slavery. He can't protect him from the memories now, memories that are haunting him as well.

And he can see Blaine trying so hard, he can see how much of himself Blaine puts into the both of them starting over their life in this place.

Kurt has started helping his dad around the shop again the way he did when he was a boy, thinks of maybe taking up sewing again eventually. Blaine is making friends all over the village and helping out at the bakery sometimes just to have something to do. At night, when the candles are out and they're resting in each other's arms, he tells Kurt of how he'd thought, before he was sold, he might want to be a teacher one day.

“You can still do all of that,” Kurt tells him encouragingly. “I'll help you!”

Blaine sighs and burrows deeper into Kurt's embrace. “Maybe some day,” he says. “Not yet.”

And they don't talk about it again for a while.

Another evening, he comes home to find Blaine with his shirt off standing backwards in front of the mirror that's on their dresser, looking over his shoulder to examine his own back.

“Hey,” Kurt says, taking off his jacket to hang over the chair in the corner. “Everything all right?”

Blaine doesn't look at him, keeps staring at his own back with a look Kurt can't decipher. “I was never brave enough to actually look until now,” he finally says. “It's not what I imagined.”

Kurt walks over to him, places a hand on his shoulder, looks with him into the mirror. He knew what it looked like, Blaine's back. He's seen it many times at the castle when he rubbed cooling salve on it, and now even more often, all those times they've made love, all those times he woke up wrapped around Blaine with his face pressed to the back of his shoulder. The scars don't scare him, he's never thought of the fact that Blaine couldn't ever really see them. That he didn't even know what they looked like.

The whip has never cut into his flesh too deeply; as long as a slave is still expected to perform his duties, punishments will only be severe enough to severely hurt and to damage enough to be felt for a long time. They're not meant to take them out. So it's a web of scars raising the skin on his back, running from his shoulders down into the waistband of his pants, the arrow wound bigger and wider than the rest, standing out clearly below his shoulder blade.

“It looks horrible,” Blaine whispers, sounding close to tears.

Kurt steps behind him, flattens both palms against his back that he's touched so many times in bed, he knows the roughness of it, the ridges, the texture. He bends down to press a lingering kiss between Blaine's shoulder blades, then rests his cheek against the back of his neck.

“You're beautiful, Blaine,” he says quietly, and knows Blaine won't fully believe him yet. He'll just have to keep telling him this until he does. “The most beautiful man I have ever seen. And I love you. More than I can say.”

Blaine sways for a moment before leaning back against him, and sighs. “I love you too. You know that.”

“I do,” Kurt assures him. “I know.”

He has scars of his own. All over his body. They've been through hell, he and Blaine, both of them. And there are other wounds that will never fully heal and he is well aware of that. But they're safe now. And they have each other. It's enough.

**

They sit by the fireplace as the weather turns colder, and Burt looks at them from his armchair, scratches his head, clears his throat.

“You sure about this?”

Blaine exchanges a look with Kurt, who just smiles at him, looking happy and content and Blaine has no choice but to smile back.

“Yes,” Kurt says. “Absolutely.”

“It's practically the house across the street,” Burt points out.

Kurt nods. “Which is what makes it perfect. I have to be honest.” He scrunches up his face a little, looking embarrassed. “After seven years away, I kind of want to live close to my father, if that's okay with you. But Blaine and I also need our own space. So -”

“Buddy, if it were up to me you'd stay under my roof for another ten years.” Burt laughs. “I only just got you back a few months ago after I didn't even know if you were still alive all those years. If you want to move across the street, I'll even help you make the necessary repairs on the house. I just want to make sure that it's what you want. Both of you,” he adds with a smile in Blaine's direction.

Blaine takes Kurt's hand, looks back at Kurt's dad calmly. “We've talked about it for weeks. We've made the first payment with the money I've earned at the bakery. We're sure.”

“It's a good house,” Burt says, scratching his head again. “You should wait for spring though to start the repairs. No good to start taking things apart in the middle of winter.”

“Then I guess we'll be staying with you for a little while longer yet,” Kurt points out, grinning.

Burt grins back and sometimes it delights Blaine how these two look so alike and are so similar, and yet so very different in some respects. “Looks that way.”

Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder as he listens to the two of them talk about window latches and rebuilding the chimney from scratch and feels … warm. Welcome. Safe. Loved.

He has a home now. He'd really seriously forgotten what that feels like.

It's been a long day for him since he'd been helping out at the school before helping out at the bakery – they need money for the next payment on their new house and they'll need tools and materials to repair stuff, so they've both been working wherever help was needed.

Blaine likes helping out at the school though, thinks about staying on even after they've bought the house. He knows Kurt would like that too, he gets excited every time Blaine talks about how much he loves his work there.

He dozes off after a while, lulled to sleep by Kurt's warmth against his side and the sound of his and Burt's voices. When he wakes, it is to Kurt carding his fingers through is hair, smiling at him.

“Let's go to bed, sweetheart,” he says.

Blaine rubs his eyes, nods drowsily, lets Kurt pull him to his feet and waits as Burt hugs his son goodnight, then opens his arms to receive his own hug from Burt.

It had taken him a while to get used to the way this family hugs each other all the time, though Kurt assures him it hasn't always been quite like this. But they've all lost each other at one point and if one thing of the experience has stayed behind, it's that they're open with their affection for each other now. And he's getting used to it, after years of physical contact being equivalent with aggression, he's getting used to broad, friendly hands squeezing his shoulders, hugs as a way to greet each other, Carole ruffling his hair in passing or kissing his cheek before saying goodnight. Finn, who is still out on a late night walk with a girl named Rachel who's apparently another one of Kurt's close childhood friends, gives especially strong hugs, good-natured but always a little overenthusiastic. It's not always easy, but he knows how it's meant, and he's trying to be all right with it.

Kurt takes his hand as they climb the stairs together, and side by side, they brush their teeth, change into their sleep shirts, and crawl into bed together.

It's Kurt's old bed they're sharing and it's narrow for two people, but soon they'll have a bigger house with a bigger bedroom that has space for a bigger bed. For now, Blaine rolls half on top of Kurt because that's how he sleeps best, and Kurt wraps his arms around him.

“Sometimes I still find it hard to believe that I'm allowed to do this now,” Blaine says quietly, slipping a leg over both of Kurt's and kissing his neck. “You know, that I can be here with you. That we're allowed to sleep like this and wake up like this and that it's no one's business but ours.”

Kurt hums in response. “I know. Sometimes, I feel like the luckiest person on earth.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, lifting his head to look at him in the light of the one candle burning on the nightstand. “I just … I love you. So much. You know that. But I was wondering … have I ever thanked you properly?”

“For what?” Kurt gives him a puzzled look, frowning.

“For saving me,” Blaine explains.

“From the castle?” Kurt shakes his head. “Honestly, I told Elliott you were there, but the rest of it was all him -”

“No,” Blaine interrupts. “I don't mean just that. I mean – for giving me something to hold onto when I needed it. For your kindness. It meant so much to me. And … for your love. I hadn't felt loved in a very long time until I met you.”

“Oh.” Kurt blushes a little, lifts a hand to touch his palm to the side of Blaine's face. “Blaine,” he whispers, “You saved me too. You know that, right?”

Blaine kisses him slowly, gently, sweetly at first, but then Kurt's hand slips under his sleep shirt and touches his thigh and the kiss changes to something hungrier, something full of longing.

“I'd like to thank you properly,” Blaine breathes against his lips, the smallest grin playing around his mouth.

“Mmm,” Kurt answers. “And just what did you have in mind?”

Blaine shakes his head, tries to look mysterious. “It can't be explained. I'd have to show you.”

Kurt sighs exaggeratedly, then leans up to kiss his nose. “Fine. Show me. But don't roll us off the bed again, I don't need dad and Carole and Finn barging in here again while you steal the one blanket from the bed to hide behind.”

“I said I was sorry for that!” Blaine protests, pouting at him.

Kurt laughs. “You're so lucky you're cute. And that I love you.”

“I know,” Blaine says, suddenly serious. “Believe me, I do know how lucky I am.”

Their lips meet in another deep kiss and Kurt holds him close and, yes, he knows. He is lucky.

And some days are hard and there are things that will never be easy and no one can erase the past they have both lived through.

But tonight, he's happy. And he'll spend the rest of forever making sure that Kurt is happy too. That's all he wants, for the both of them.


End file.
